


The Bite

by Laur



Series: The Wolf [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bottom John, Developing Relationship, Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Explicit Sexual Content, Injury, John Whump, M/M, Slow Burn, Supernatural Elements, Werewolves, a bit - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-08 15:51:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 16
Words: 48,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15933632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laur/pseuds/Laur
Summary: Sherlock gets it wrong.Days, months, even years in the future, Sherlock’s oversight during the Baskerville case will continue to torment him, but nothing about that night will ever be as painfully vivid as the memory of John’s screams.This is how it begins.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Check out the amazing [cover art](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17633321) for this fic made by [allsovacant](https://archiveofourown.org/users/allsovacant/pseuds/allsovacant)!

Sherlock gets it wrong.

Not just a bit wrong, but he won’t realize for weeks just how utterly wrong he is.

Henry’s father did indeed discover a secret of Frankland’s, a discovery for which he was murdered, but he had no idea about the chemical warfare experiments. The secret he uncovered was much more unbelievable and sinister than any weaponized deliriant drug.

Days, months, even years in the future, Sherlock’s oversight during the Baskerville case will continue to torment him, but nothing about that night will ever be as painfully vivid as the memory of John’s screams.

 

The first time John wakes, he is blazing hot. His mind immediately takes him back to the desert. Shoulder bandaged and throbbing, he knows with a sudden certainty that every moment with Sherlock has been nothing but a dream, and experiences a grief so intense he nearly sobs.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice seems to say, and yet it sounds nothing like him. “You’ve got a fever, but you’ll be fine.”

 _Not another bloody fever_. He moans. There is a commotion around him – machines beeping, people talking.

“Listen to me, you’re not back there. We’re being transported back to London.”

He tries to shake his head.

“You idiot.” The voice that sounds like Sherlock’s wobbles drunkenly. “You have to be fine.”

 

A horrid stench wakes him up the next time.

Antiseptic, vomit, piss, shit, oozing infection, cloying perfume, pungent flowers, stress sweat and stale sheets.

Stomach churning, John jerks to the side and gags onto the linoleum floor. There’s a sudden intake of breath behind him and a chair scratching the floor harshly. A warm hand brushes his back briefly before rapid steps make their way across the room.

Sinuses stinging and eyes watering, John continues to gag even as the movement jars his shoulder hideously, black spots blooming in his vision. He can _smell_ Sherlock’s increase of stress, knows that the man hasn’t had a proper shower in days.

“Nurse!” Sherlock bellows, his imperious tone marred by panic.

John falls back into darkness.

 

A noise startles him awake next. In the darkness, the silhouette beside him is breathing harshly, nearly whimpering.

“Y’alright?” John slurs.

The silhouette shakes its head. John means to ask what’s wrong, but he blinks and forgets to open his eyes again.

 

The fourth time he wakes he is alone, but he knows where he is. The scents of the hospital assault his painfully hypersensitive nose, so he breathes subtly through his dry mouth, blinking hard to clear his vision.

Out in the hall, Greg and Sherlock are having a row.

“– arrested my client?” Sherlock is shouting, his deep voice echoing through the closed door.

“He turned himself in,” Greg argues, equally loudly. “He shot Frankland five times.”

“He was hallucinating,” Sherlock says scathingly. “As were we all. Our perception of events wouldn’t hold up –”

“You think I don’t know that? I’ve no _bloody_ idea what happened that night, Sherlock. I seem to remember you shooting at some bulletproof monster –”

“I missed, obviously.”

“And then Frankland shows up dead and John’s mauled half to –”

Greg cuts himself off abruptly and the men are briefly silent. John can hear Greg breathing heavily while Sherlock seems not to breathe at all. John considers calling out to get their attention. His shoulder aches under its mound of bandages and his mouth tastes like sandpaper.

“How is he?” Greg asks then, more subdued.

Lathing his tongue over his teeth, John wets his mouth enough to croak, “Awake!”

With a suddenness that is startling, the door is flung open, slamming against the wall and making John flinch as a wide-eyed Sherlock bursts into the room. “John!” he exclaims, a brilliant smile breaking across his face. “You’re awake!” he continues redundantly.

Managing a weak smile, John coughs and teases, “Obviously. I imagine the whole floor is with you two shouting at the top of your lungs.”

Greg frowns defensively. “We weren’t shouting,” he objects. “Got told off by a nurse the other day and been whispering ever since.”

“Well you weren’t doing a good job of it,” John tells him and, grimacing, “Be a mate and fetch me some water?”

Blinking, Sherlock hastens to fill a paper cup for him before Greg can move. “Poor hospital design,” Sherlock reasons, handing John the water and watching closely as he drinks with his non-dominant hand. “The walls are terribly thin.”

 

Greg only has time to express his happiness at John’s return to consciousness before he’s called away.

“Wait, what’s happened to Henry?” John asks, throat still sore but voice less croaky than it was.

“He, uh…” Greg rubs the back of his neck. “He confessed to shooting and killing Bob Frankland.”

“What?” John exclaims, trying to recall the events of that night in the Hollow. His memories are a tangled web in his aching head that he doesn’t have the energy to unravel. “When? How did that happen?”

“Well…” Greg hedges.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock mutters impatiently. “With the influence of Frankland’s drug, none of us are entirely sure what happened.”

“As witnesses to Henry’s alleged crime,” Greg continues, “we’ll be brought in for interviews. That’s where I’m headed now, actually. They’ll not just take his word for it, considering the circumstances.”

“It was self-defence, surely? His judgement must have been impaired by the drug – all of us were impaired.” John looks to Sherlock. “Have you spoken to Henry?”

A wrinkle appears between Sherlock’s eyebrows. “No.”

“No?” John’s eyebrows raise.

Sherlock’s expression sours. “I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” he says pointedly.

That stings. John hates to be a burden, but it’s not like he’s forcing Sherlock to stay. “You can go if you’ve got things to do,” he retorts. “You don’t need to babysit me.”

Sherlock’s face shutters and John can see Greg glancing between them. “I was under the impression that when a friend is ill or injured it is customary to keep them company.”

“Well, yeah, but it’s not obligatory –”

“Christ,” Greg sighs. “My five-year-old niece has better communication skills than you two.” Both men stare at him, John somewhat offended and Sherlock annoyed, and Greg holds up his hands defensively. “Sorry, none of my business. Look, I’m late already. Glad to see you awake, John.”

As he departs he’s replaced by a doctor, who picks up on the awkward atmosphere immediately. She glances between Sherlock and John before settling into a professional demeanor that manages to avoid being condescending. With a solemnness that is disquieting, Sherlock listens silently as she updates John on his condition.

John was admitted about six days ago, unconscious and bleeding heavily from deep lacerations and puncture wounds to his left shoulder and upper arm. His subclavian artery was nicked, several bones grazed and muscles shredded. He’s lucky none of his already-damaged nerves were severed. He’s covered in bruises, has three cracked ribs and a minor concussion. He caught an infection, and John can tell by her vague terminology that the exact type hasn’t been identified, but with his current medication – John glances at one of his IV bags slowly filling him with antibiotics – she is confident that John is improving.

Generally, John feels like he’s been hit by a lorry, and the brief conversation with Greg has leached him of all his energy. The more his doctor talks, the more his head pounds. The lights seem to pierce through his eyes like needles into his skull, and it feels like his doctor’s high voice is ripping into his eardrums.

“Can’t you give him something stronger?” Sherlock interrupts her suddenly. “I can tell by your socks that you’re sleep deprived, but surely even you can see that he’s clearly in pain. I recommend spending less time reading romantic drivel and more time reacquainting yourself with some medical textbooks.”

John considers telling Sherlock off, but his migraine is quickly worsening and he’s glad for the interruption. With a strained smile, the doctor confirms John’s pain level and increases his dosage of analgesic before leaving. John glances at her black socks curiously, but they appear innocuous as far as socks go.

The migraine reduced to a dull throbbing, John smiles woozily at Sherlock, who collapses into the chair at his side again. “Her socks?”

Frowning, Sherlock slumps and crosses his arms. “Different fabric patterns. She clearly just grabbed the first two black socks she laid her hands on. As for the books – I noticed several luridly titled and illustrated novels on her desk.”

“You snooped through her office? What am I saying, of course you did.”

Sherlock shrugs. “It was unlocked – not that the lock would have been any trouble – and I wanted to verify that your doctor isn’t completely incompetent.”

John sighs, but knows better than to waste energy on a lecture that Sherlock will just tune out. Instead he pats Sherlock’s hand distractedly, wondering how the man hasn’t been kicked out yet. He takes a good look around the room then and has a sudden thought. He seems to be having many sudden thoughts at the moment, fleeting as fish kissing the surface of a pond and darting away again. “Is this a private room? Are we back in London?”  

Looking up from where his hand is covered by John’s, Sherlock gives him an ‘are you an idiot’ look that’s less withering than usual. “Of course we’re in London. I suppose your mental acuity is currently compromised by your condition, but really, John, where do you think this garden sprung from?” he demands, flapping a hand at the numerous bouquets dotting the room.

John squints at him sleepily. “My friends and coworkers?” he offers with the tone of voice of a man knowing he is about to be ridiculed for his answer.

Sure enough, Sherlock scoffs. “This many? Please, your friends and coworkers care about your well-being enough to drop off cheaply bought flowers on their way to other appointments, but only one or two would be willing to pay the extra fee to have flowers shipped and delivered to Dartmoor. Ergo, by the number of under-ten-pound bouquets here, we’re clearly in London.”

By the end of that little spiel John’s eyes have drifted closed, but he manages to open one eye to glare at his flatmate, mustering a vaguely insulted feeling. “Cheers,” he mumbles. “Thanks for that.”

“They’re all idiots, anyway,” Sherlock complains as John succumbs to sleep.

 

He catches Sherlock nodding off in his chair the next day and orders him home for a shower and nap. Initially, Sherlock resists, but after failing to suppress his third yawn, the exhausted man admits defeat. He places John’s freshly charged mobile into his hand, makes John promise to call him if any of his doctors abuse or neglect him by dint of their idiocy, and shuffles out of the room to find himself a cab.

John sleeps on-and-off for the next couple hours before getting a visit from Sarah, who is on her lunch break and has brought him tea from somewhere not-the-hospital. Even from his spot reclined on the bed he can smell her familiar shampoo and perfume, and wonders idly if she over-applied today.

He closes his eyes as he takes his first grateful sip. “You’re an angel,” he breathes through the steam, the comforting smell washing through his sinuses.

“Well, we miss you at the clinic,” she teases, forcing a small smile. “We need you on your feet ASAP so you can take Mrs. O’Donnell’s appointments again. You’re the only one she listens to.”

“Ah, see the trick is to agree to everything she says until she begins second-guessing herself.”

Eyes twinkling, Sarah presses the heel of a hand to her forehead. “Reverse psychology. You’re brilliant.”

“Nah, just got an older sister.” An older sister whose only acknowledgment of her brother being in hospital was a text saying ‘get well soon xo’.

John’s tempted to text Sherlock about Sarah’s visit, just to show that he _does_ have friends who care about him, ta, but decides that would be a tad pathetic.

After she’s left, a nurse comes to change his dressing and he cranes his neck awkwardly to see the damage. He frowns at what he sees.

“Surprised?” the nurse asks lightly.

It isn’t that the wound looks unhealthy, it’s that it appears better than he was expecting.

“Since your fever went down it’s been healing…extremely well.”

John grunts, staring in fascination at the lacerations that look a month rather than a week old. “Is there some experimental ointment I’m not aware of?”

“Just the usual,” the nurse denies, passing his chart to his good hand to show him the list of standard medications he’s been administered. “You’ve got a guardian angel, it seems.”

John’s pretty sure no angel would smile upon him, never mind bother guarding him, but he hums in agreement. Before the nurse leaves, he remembers that he meant to ask for an extra cot if they can spare one, and then wonders if he’s being presumptuous. It’s not like Sherlock can’t go home to sleep, but would he see the cot as a request to stay? As insecurity or neediness? Granted, Sherlock only ever does exactly as he likes anyway, and if he doesn’t want to stay he won’t be shy in saying so. Plus, if he scoffs about sentiment John can just blame it on the drugs.

By the time he’s finished his mental rambling, nurse is already out the door.

 

The next afternoon, an officer enters John’s room to get their statements. She’s a tall, powerful looking woman, with chestnut hair cropped at jaw-length and a severity to her features that would make her seem cold if not for the gentle line of her mouth, which appears constantly on the edge of a smile. She flashes her police badge and introduces herself as Detective Inspector Cavanaugh. She smells wary, anxious, and John has a moment of silent hysteria as he wonders how he knows what anxiety smells like.

Since John’s awake and feeling alright, Cavanaugh kicks out a reluctant Sherlock with a no-nonsense demeanor that John admires, and interviews John first. His memories of that night are still muddled, and the more he tries to relay them to Cavanaugh, the more uncertain he becomes.

“Honestly, we were all drugged out of our minds,” John says at last, once he’s gone through what he remembers and they’re looking at each other in confusion. “But whatever happened, I can’t imagine Henry meant to fatally wound Frankland.”

She turns off her recording device and manages a strained smile. “It sounds like it was quite a traumatic experience, but you seem to be recovering well. Thank you for your cooperation.” She gives him her number in case he remembers anything else. “Any chance Mr. Holmes stayed put like I asked him to?”

“None,” John grins. “But your best bet is the morgue.”

 

John dreams of the monstrous hound. Eyes like burning coal, growls deep enough to vibrate his bones and muffle his hearing, the stench of blood as hooked claws gouge his shoulder. Visceral, incapacitating agony as inch long teeth sink through skin and fat and muscle to bone.

He wakes to shouting, his own and Sherlock’s.

“Stop! John, stop, you’ll injure yourself!”

He’s suffocating _._ The bandages swaddling his shoulder are a boa constrictor, tightening further with each rapid exhalation. Panic grips his chest and spurs his muscles into action. With fumbling fingers, John tears at the bandages.

Normally, Sherlock’s scent is a thrill of temptation swaddled in familiar comfort, but at the moment it is claustrophobic, smothering.

“John, don’t!” Sherlock leans over him, traps him, grabs for his hands.

With a bellow like a wounded animal, John shoves.

Sherlock nearly flies backwards with the force. His back hits the wall hard enough to knock the breath out of him – John can literally hear Sherlock’s breath rushing out like a popped balloon. The sound yanks him out of his sea of panic. He looks at his hand, still pulsing with the contact, uncomprehending.

Sherlock slides gracelessly to the floor, hand to his chest as he struggles to draw breath. Pulling off his pulse oximeter, John scrambles out of the bed and has his IV clamped and removed before his bare feet hit the floor.

“ _Buggering fuck_ ,” he gasps, his shoulder a white blaze of torment, and goes to his knees in front of Sherlock, the movement not entirely voluntary. Eyes wide with shock, mouth open and throat seizing, Sherlock grips John’s right forearm. John meets his gaze as steadily as possible. “Sherlock, you’re alright, just listen. You’ve got the wind knocked out of you, okay? Just do as I saw, now. Sit upright with me, that’s right. Push out your stomach as you breathe in through your mouth.”

Sherlock manages a rather unfocused withering look.

“Yes, I know, your diaphragm has temporarily tightened up so we’re just trying to help it relax. Push your stomach out as you breathe in, suck your stomach in as you exhale. Good, try again.”

After about a minute, Sherlock is able to breathe more easily and he slumps against the wall, keeping hold of John’s forearm.

“Alright?”

Eyes closing, Sherlock tips his head back and sighs. “Not the first time I’ve had the wind knocked out of me.”

“Yeah, well it doesn’t exactly get easier with practice,” John mutters, subtly feeling Sherlock’s pulse settle under his fingertips. Now that Sherlock is fine, the aching of his shoulder comes into sharper focus, and John shifts in discomfort.

He can’t stop picturing how Sherlock practically flew back under the force of John’s one-armed push. Surely, surely there’s no way John could push that hard. Sherlock must have stumbled back and tripped over his own feet, falling back into the wall.

John can hear footsteps pounding down the hall towards them, and knows they’ll be yelled at by a harried nurse if he’s not back in bed in about twenty seconds. “Help me up, quick.”

Sherlock stands, pulling John up after him. By the time the nurse bursts through the door, John’s back under the covers, IV re-inserted and he’s just putting his pulse oximeter back on. There’s some blood on the sheets where he bled from pulling out the IV, which he carefully obscures with his body.

“Dr. Watson!” the nurse exclaims. “Is everything alright?”

“Yeah, sorry!” John gives his most charming smile and waves his clamped finger with the oximeter. “Damn thing fell off while I was sleeping.” His heart-rate is still a bit elevated, and the nurse scans them suspiciously, pausing on Sherlock’s somewhat ruffled appearance. Suddenly, the nurse smirks.

“I’m sure,” he agrees, eyebrows practically wriggling. “Just careful of the shoulder, boys.”

The nurse slips away and John’s head flops back against the pillow. “Jesus,” he breathes, feeling like a kid who just avoided a scolding from his mum. He turns his head to face Sherlock, who really does look a bit of a mess. “You alight?”

“I can’t believe you pulled out your IV, you idiot,” Sherlock snaps. “What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking that I’d somehow knocked you into a wall and you were on the verge of a panic attack.”

“Was not! Asphyxiation is not the same as a panic attack.”

“Guess breathing’s not so boring after all, huh?” John sighs. “Sorry I pushed you.”

“Yes, well, obviously I shouldn’t have grabbed you. What were you dreaming about?”

John scoffs. “What do you think I was dreaming about?” For the past several days, John has been too exhausted and in pain to question his muddled memories, but now the question jumps out of him, like a rabbit startled by the flash of headlights. “Sherlock, what the hell happened that night?”


	2. Chapter 2

The sun is still hours from rising, but neither of them are planning on getting any more sleep. Instead, John raises the bed back so he can sit up, and they decide to make a timeline to make sense of their memories in Dewer’s Hollow. In deference to John’s ‘limited imagination and memory’, Sherlock writes on sticky notes that he swiped from a desk somewhere, and puts them in order on the wall in front of John. The first note, in Sherlock’s sharp writing, says ‘arrive at hollow, stop Henry killing himself’.

“Jesus, Sherlock.”

“What? That’s what happened.”

The second says ‘Lestrade arrives, late as usual’, the third: ‘John disarms Henry’.

“Then the first hound shows up, and we all see it,” John recalls, thinking of Greg’s horrified face.

“Yes, but did we see the same thing?”

John shrugs one shoulder. “You’d already implanted the idea in my head of what I was meant to see. Black hound, red eyes, glowing, lots of teeth.”

“And then Frankland showed up.”

“What? When?”

“Just before I realized the drug was in the fog. I pulled off his mask and Frankland was covering his mouth and nose, trying not to breathe it in. That’s how I knew.”

John pauses in his contemplation of their notes to gaze at Sherlock in wonder. Even drugged with an hallucinogen, Sherlock was able to make connections faster than anyone John’s ever met. “Brilliant.”

Sherlock gives a sort of bashful, one-shoulder shrug. “Then you shot the hound with Henry’s gun.”

“And Henry attacked Frankland.”

“You and Lestrade restrained Henry…”

They both fall silent as they remember, doubtful of their own memories.

Glancing up at his friend, John sighs. “I won’t laugh at yours if you don’t laugh at mine,” he offers.

With a snort, Sherlock flaps a hand for him to continue.

“So. Right.” John closes his eyes. “So, looked like Frankland was going to be sick. He was hunched on the ground, kind of, uh, convulsing. He denied the accusations and then started to – started to…” John swallows. “I thought it was a seizure at first, but… The drug must have made us see things, but the next thing I remember Frankland was gone and there was this – this monster. It was huge. It attacked me, I remember I lost Henry’s gun, but not much more after that.” He clenches his fists, the left shooting pain up his arm and through his shoulder, as flashes of teeth and fur flicker in front of his eyes.

Hesitant fingers brush his shin through the blanket. “Alright?”

John clears his throat. Nods. “So. We’ve got: arrive at the Hollow, stop Henry killing himself, Lestrade arrives, I disarm Henry, the black hound shows up, you see Frankland, I shoot –”

“Wait, stop,” Sherlock interrupts, voice urgent. “Repeat that last bit.”

Pursing his lips, John tries to recall his exact words. “Er, you see Frankland?”

“Before that.”

“Lestrade arrives…I disarm Henry…the black hound shows up…”

Sherlock raises a hand to stop him. “You said ‘black hound’. Why ‘black hound’?”

“Um, because it was black?” John hazards.

Sherlock makes a motion with his eyes, an abbreviated eye roll, too impatient to even fully express his exasperation. “But why is that the distinguishing feature? What colour was the second hound, the monster that attacked you?”

With a slight frown, John admits, “Grey. Why is that important?”

Sherlock points at him. “You said I’d influenced what you were meant to see.” He begins pacing a tight circuit in the small hospital room. “Your exact words were: ‘You’d already implanted the idea in my head of what I was meant to see. Black hound, red eyes, glowing, lots of teeth’.” John’s lip quirks at Sherlock’s need to show off his formidable memory. “So why would you see the second hound as grey when you were already expecting black and glowing?”

“Dunno. What colour did you see?”

“Grey. With some white mixed in.”

They fall silent, both wondering at the implications.

“Coincidence?” John offers, not really believing it.

A short shake of the head dismisses that. “Too unlikely.” Sherlock pulls out his mobile.

“Who are you texting?”

“Lestrade.”

“To ask what colour he saw?”

Sherlock hums in agreement.

“Maybe the animal that attacked me – because a human didn’t do this,” John gestures at his shoulder, “The bear or wolf or whatever, was grey. That’s why we saw the monster as grey.”

“Possible,” Sherlock concedes. “Though the first hound was only a black dog, and you saw it as some glowing beast. Theoretically, the drug can warp your perception so much that the real-world appearance should have little impact.” His mobile vibrates in his hand. He quickly reads the message and looks up at John. “Lestrade saw grey, as well. And he had no pre-conceived notions of what the hound would look like, other than his own imagination.”

“What does it mean? How could we have all seen the same thing when the drug should have been messing with our perception?”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock admits, disgruntled. They fall silent again, but while Sherlock is still thinking and analyzing possibilities, John’s reached a dead end.

“So what happened next? After I was attacked? Did you kill the thing?”

At that Sherlock stiffens, and while they hadn’t exactly been making eye contact before, now Sherlock seems to be consciously avoiding John’s gaze. “No,” he says, voice flat. “I attempted to shoot it with Lestrade’s gun, but was unable to hit it. You have Henry to thank for saving your life. He found his gun after you’d thrown it and shot the monster to get it away from you.”

Sherlock’s blank mask looks brittle, like a light tap would shatter it entirely, and John fights the urge to touch him. After a too-long deliberation, while Sherlock just stands there, staring at their notes on the wall, John reaches out and clasps one of Sherlock’s clenched hands. When he gets no reaction, he squeezes and murmurs, “You did your best under the –”

The mask splinters, disgust bleeding into Sherlock’s features as he pulls away. “ _My best_ ,” he repeats, voice mocking. “My best was to empty a chamber of bullets and somehow miss my target, which was barely fifteen paces from me, _every single time_ , while you screamed as some _monster_ tore you apart –”

John grabs his wrist this time. Sherlock tries to pull away again, a broken sound of protest in his throat, but John just squeezes until Sherlock flinches and stops resisting. They stay frozen like that for a moment, John drinking in Sherlock’s expression, both horrified by this guilt Sherlock has been carrying, and elated by the emotion Sherlock is displaying. What John sees conflicts with Sherlock’s self-professed disdain for sentiment, but Sherlock’s chest is heaving, his eyes are wide, the corners of his lips downturned, and under John’s hand he can feel Sherlock’s muscles shivering.

He knows Sherlock isn’t a sociopath, not even close. He realized it was all a sham – a convincing one, Sherlock’s probably even managed to half convince himself – within weeks of moving in with the man. John knew a sociopath in medical school, remembers the chilling disinterest in his eyes, the charismatic smile and haughty angle of his shoulders. He drifted through the social circles of his peers, leaving emotional chaos in his wake that could somehow never be tied back to him. John kept his distance, wary of the way the sociopath would charm and manipulate until he got what he wanted. While Sherlock’s got some of those qualities, there is too much life in his eyes, and a stark vulnerability under that calculating veneer. Plus, John’s seen the way Sherlock reacts after failing to solve a case in time, and the way he panics when John’s in immediate danger.

This is different though, because Sherlock looks like he’s panicking, but John’s not in danger. It can be easy to forget while on a case, when Sherlock is his sharpest, coldest self, that there is a roiling sea of emotion powering that brilliant mind. 

John tugs him closer until he sits in the chair at his side, then hesitates. They don’t hug – they never have anyway – and Sherlock’s only ever touched John in the most perfunctory ways – a hand on the back or arm to hurry him, mostly. But Sherlock’s distress is palpable and John needs to do _something_ , even if his shoulder aches too much for a proper embrace, so he bows his head to gently press his forehead to Sherlock’s chest, hoping the contact and body warmth will provide comfort. Sherlock’s breath rushes out of him as he sags a bit and long, trembling fingers wrap around John’s right wrist.

“I hardly understand what happened after that,” Sherlock rasps, voice rumbling above John’s head. “Lestrade had to guide me through basic first aid and you were bleeding – so much.” The hand around John’s wrists tightens.

“I’m fine now,” John murmurs, worried Sherlock will find the platitude condescending, but his curls brush against John’s ear as he nods. “And what then? The hound ran off?”

“Must have. I…wasn’t paying attention,” Sherlock admits, and he sounds almost embarrassed.

With a nod, John pulls back a bit, looking up at his flatmate and friend. Now that Sherlock’s calmed, their proximity seems very…significant, and John freezes, torn between panic and the sudden, burning desire to close the short distance between their lips. Sherlock’s eyes are wide, his cheeks slightly flushed and John’s head is already tilted back. He glances, without thought, like an idiot, at Sherlock’s lips, and Sherlock blinks hard. The hand around his wrist releases all at once and Sherlock leans back.

It feels like a string is connecting them, so strong is the urge John feels to sway towards him. Instead, he presses back into the bed as Sherlock stands.

“Well!” Sherlock claps his hands and John jumps. “I suppose that clarifies some aspects, but not many. We still don’t know what happened to the animal that attacked you, nor do we know how Frankland ended up getting shot.” He twirls away, dramatic as ever, towards the door, grabbing his coat as he goes. “I really ought to go speak with Lestrade, I’ve put it off far too long already. And Henry, I suppose, he’ll be…upset or confused or something, yes? Yes, of course.”

John almost climbs out of bed to follow, transfixed by Sherlock’s manic babbling. It’s just after four in the morning, now, and Lestrade will definitely be asleep.

“No, no, you have to stay, obviously,” Sherlock immediately rebukes him. He swoops out the door, calling over his shoulder, “I won’t be long.”

The door swings shut behind him and John listens to Sherlock’s hurried steps receding down the hall. With a snort and a sardonic twist to his lips, John closes his eyes and thinks.

 

Walking briskly out of the hospital, Sherlock tries to convince himself he’s not fleeing. He’s very good at finding and analyzing evidence, however, and his tight chest and jittery legs are painfully obvious as far as clues go.

The problem is that John is distracting enough just being John. If he weren’t so useful Sherlock would have kicked him out of the flat weeks ago, when he realized that the warmth in his gut when he meets John’s storm blue eyes – or notices the confidence in his gait, or hears the ring of authority in his voice when restraining a criminal – is attraction. He did thorough testing once the truth dawned: staring at a photo of John and quickly checking his pupillary response – suggestive – smelling John’s sheets and observing his body’s reactions – concerning – and purposely imagining erotic scenarios of John and monitoring his heart rate – damning.

Attraction is not a new concept to Sherlock – he has experienced it before and not been overly concerned. It is typically a fleeting, superficial thing, unless an individual turns out to be particularly clever, in which case the attraction might linger for a more significant amount of time. Deep in his mind palace lies a securely, intricately locked room which contains memories and imaginings involving certain clever people Sherlock has known in his lifetime: his second violin teacher, who, with infinite patience and clever fingers, taught him the language (rather than the mechanics) of music; his chemistry TA in his second year of uni, who Sherlock knew, after one meeting, had a brain that worked in ways not even he could fully understand; and the Woman, whose physical beauty matched the cunning of her mind, and who still manages to escape that secret room despite Sherlock’s best efforts, running amok in his mind palace at the most inopportune times.

So, no, attraction is not a new concept to Sherlock. What worries him is that John is not particularly clever – intelligent enough, certainly, but not outside the norm – and yet Sherlock’s attraction to him only seems to grow. Rather than a teasing leaf, floating on the breeze and brushing by Sherlock’s skin, his attraction for John has taken root, has pushed through the soil and thrived, and by the time Sherlock really took notice, it had already bloomed. 

This attraction is also, inevitably, a distraction that Sherlock would normally not tolerate. But once Sherlock finally realized what was happening, he was already in too deep. The obvious solution – cut ties, push John away – is unbearable. John is far too useful, with his ability to kick-start Sherlock’s brain, not to mention his illegal firearm, medical training, penchant for danger, and unending patience for his fellow average-minded people. So Sherlock tolerates the way his mind occasionally wanders away from a case or an experiment when John is sitting in the room, reading a book in the sunlight streaming through the window. He’s come to expect the way his core body temperature raises a degree whenever John calls him brilliant or fantastic. He reluctantly accepts the way his thoughts stutter when John laughs at his jokes, and dreads the way his chest squeezes when John is in pain or angry or disappointed.

And now that John is in hospital, everything is so much worse, because Sherlock is suddenly suffering from a fierce protectiveness and this odd anxiety, which spikes when he can’t watch the steady curves and bumps of John’s heart beat on the monitor. And now John is trying to reassure Sherlock by _touching_ him and then, just now, he _looked_ at Sherlock like –

And, once again, Sherlock can’t trust what he sees, because what if he’s just projecting what he wants to see? What if he’s twisting John’s behaviour to fit the (hopes) theories in his head? Or, worse, what if John really is attracted to him? Then what? John has a high libido and rarely hesitates in pursuing a potential sexual partner, and Sherlock is not sure he wishes to be pursued. If mere attraction to John is this distracting, he can’t even imagine how disconcerting a relationship with him would be. It would be terrible news for brainwork, he’s sure, and the Work must come first.

Sherlock slides into the first taxi he sees and gives the cabby Lestrade’s address. He will knock until Lestrade wakes up and answers the door, and will talk about the Baskerville case until the only thoughts in his head are those of logic and clues and puzzles.


	3. Chapter 3

The next morning, just over two weeks after being admitted, John manages to convince his doctor to release him. He’s healing well, he points out, and he is, in fact, a doctor himself. Plus, Sherlock will be around to nurse him, he adds, knowing full well that Sherlock will wander off or get lost in his head and do nothing of the sort.

Sherlock swoops down the hall just as John’s being wheeled out of his room, sees John in the wheelchair, and goes pale.

“I’m fine,” John says, before Sherlock can do more than open his mouth. “More than fine. They’re sending me home.”

At this, Sherlock, predictably, makes a nuisance of himself, questioning the doctors’ judgement and bullying the nurse until he can push John’s chair himself, all the while complaining that John is clearly not well enough to be out of hospital yet. Ironically, all his fussing makes the medical staff even more eager to kick John, and thus Sherlock, out, and they find themselves in a cab in record-breaking time.

The first couple minutes are silent, John surreptitiously looking at Sherlock’s profile from the corner of his eye. He considers bringing up Sherlock’s little escape act last night, but by Sherlock’s ramrod straight posture, that conversation wouldn’t get too far.

“So?” he says, instead, staring out his window and trying to ignore the way his shoulder is an extremely accurate and painful pothole detector. “What did Lestrade have for you?”

“Not much,” Sherlock drawls, heavy on the arrogance. “He’s as confused as ever. According to him, Frankland must have run off when the second wolf attacked, then, with a sudden flash of conscience, he returned only to be caught up in the crossfire. He nearly accused me of shooting the man accidentally, except that only Henry’s bullets were found in the body and I never touched Henry’s gun.”

“I guess it’s a possibility.”

“Extremely unlikely. To make matters worse, as a witness of the crime, Lestrade apparently has no control over the case and can’t bring me the evidence. Though I think he’s just not trying hard enough. And I wasn’t allowed to see or speak to Henry.”

John sighs and tips his aching head back. “You’re not going to let this go are you?”

“Doesn’t really sound like something I’d do,” Sherlock agrees.

“We’re going back to Dartmoor, aren’t we?”

Sherlock smirks. “Ah, you are learning,” he praises and twists out of the way when John tries to kick him.

 

Mrs. Hudson greets John with an exuberant joy that leaves him even more exhausted than the cab ride did, Sherlock hovering behind him like he expects John to drop any second. She visited him in hospital, but by her reaction, John muses, you’d think they hadn’t seen each other in months.

“Oh, it’s so good to have you back, John,” she gushes, following behind them as they make slow progress up the stairs. “You’re looking so much better already and the flat has been so awfully quiet. Well, of course, with you gone, Sherlock’s hardly around, and don’t get me wrong, I’ve enjoyed a bit of peace and quiet – don’t you be getting any ideas, Sherlock, what with your noisy experiments and smelly fumes. But, oh, it’s just not the same without you boys upstairs…”

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock growls, gradually losing patience as they make it to the second landing.

“I’ll make you two a lovely meal to celebrate. I’ve been looking for an excuse to bring out the good cutlery again – goodness, not that I’m glad you’re hurt, John, of course not, but no harm in making the best of a bad situation.”

“Mrs. Hudson,” John huffs, amused but wanting nothing more than some painkillers and to lie down for a week.

“John needs to sleep,” Sherlock informs her, leading John towards the stairs to his bedroom. Eyeing the couch longingly, John makes a complaining noise, but Sherlock just _tsks_ at him. “If you sit down, you won’t want to get back up, and I’m not letting you sleep on the couch. You’ve got to keep your momentum going. Chivvy along, soldier.”

Flashing a two fingered salute with the hand not restrained by a sling, John begins the slow trek up to his room.

“John’s been sleeping for the better part of a week now,” Mrs. Hudson continues, following them up these stairs, too. John wonders if she’ll be helping him with his PJs next. “What he needs is a good meal to get his strength back up. There’s no use arguing, young man –” which ‘young man’ she is referring to is unclear, “– you can both take a nice kip while I get everything ready. Sherlock, you’ll help me carry everything up when it’s ready.”

“Yes, alright, fine,” Sherlock snaps. “Go now.”

She clucks at him, but makes her descent back down the stairs. “I can see your time away hasn’t improved your manners any,” she complains.

 

Mrs. Hudson’s spread offers an impressive selection of casserole, stew, stir fry and desserts, all dishes that can be eaten singlehandedly. Plates compete with Sherlock’s chemistry set for every available bit of clean table and counter space. They sit around the coffee table to eat, John grudgingly accepting Mrs. Hudson’s tray table. Realistically, with one usable arm, he knows he won’t be able to balance his plate in his lap, and constantly bending to eat over the coffee table is out of the question.

“God, I hate being injured,” John mutters, reaching for the fancy fork Mrs. Hudson gave him and feeling about eighty. Everything smells heavenly and John feels enthusiasm over food for the first time since being admitted to the hospital.

“I know,” Sherlock says around a mouthful of curried veggies. “You were perpetually tetchy when we first met and you had that psychosomatic –”

Sherlock cuts himself off when John hisses and drops his fork, staring at his hand as the utensil clatters onto the tray.

“Oh,” Mrs. Hudson startles. “Are you alright, dear?”

The skin on his hand where he touched the fork is red and irritated, like the beginnings of a burn. “I don’t…” he trails off, flabbergasted. “Did you dip my fork in acid or something?” John wonders, meeting Sherlock’s perplexed gaze.

“What? No, of course not.”

“That is my best silver cutlery, Sherlock Holmes,” Mrs. Hudson complains. “If you’ve done something –”

“I didn’t _do_ anything!” Sherlock exclaims, exasperated. “Let me see.”

Holding out his right hand to Sherlock, they both watch as the red slowly fades from his skin. Pursing his lips, John presses the back of his hand against the fork’s handle and is forced to snatch it away only moments later as the burn becomes unbearable. “What the hell!”

Eyebrows raised, Sherlock grabs the offending fork himself, turning it around in his hands. “Seven seconds of contact and your skin reacts. Allergy to silver?”

“I never had one before,” John objects, watching the redness fade. “And the reaction wouldn’t disappear that quickly.”

“A side effect of your medication? Or your fever?”

John shakes his head, unsure. He can’t think of any medical cause for such a severe, yet fleeting, reaction.

“Oh, bollocks,” Mrs. Hudson mutters. “I suppose we’ll have to use the usual cutlery after all.”

 

“You’ll take my room,” Sherlock orders after dinner is over and the dishes are put away. “It’s closer to the bathroom. And I don’t have the patience to watch you shuffle up and down those stairs like an old man.”

John hesitates, too shocked by the offer to be insulted. Sherlock’s bedroom is his sanctuary. While the living room is a somewhat organized chaos of data and clues – an extension of Sherlock’s brilliant mind – his bedroom is practically pristine in its orderliness. It’s a safe space for Sherlock’s brain, somewhere he can reboot and recharge. Being allowed to sleep in Sherlock’s bed is an intimacy John secretly craves, but is terrified to accept.

Reading John’s apprehension from his face, Sherlock frowns. “Oh, please. There are no experiments under the bed, no specimens in the closet. I even changed the sheets earlier while you were sleeping.”

“No, no, it’s not that, it’s just…”

“What?”

“Are you sure? You’re okay with me taking over your space?”

Face smoothing out in understanding, Sherlock smirks. “Just don’t mess up my sock index again or you’re out.”

 

There’s moonlight trickling through gaps in the forest leaves. Heavy, canine panting against the nape of John’s neck. He whirls and jerks back, the enormous grey hound looming over him, teeth bared and glistening. A root snatches at his heel and he falls as the hound crouches, ready to spring. With a snarl, it leaps at him, on him, in him, fur melting into his flesh.

A hand strokes down his fur-covered arm. “I’ve only got one,” Sherlock says, next to him in the bed. “Or have I lost him, too?” He plunges his hand into John’s shoulder, tearing open the stitches and burrowing into his bullet wound.

 

He wakes with a strangled gasp, his shoulder on fire. Sherlock’s scent is everywhere. He half expects Sherlock to be lying on the bed next to him, but he’s alone. The alarm clock reads half five – early, but not too unreasonable – and John pauses at the sight of his bottle of prescription pain medication, two pills already on the table top, and a glass of water next to the clock. John can’t help but smile as he swallows the medication.

There’s no way John’s going back to sleep now, so he goes to the loo to change his bandages. He can hear Sherlock’s movements with an uncanny clarity, tinkering quietly with his chemistry set. When Sherlock notices he’s awake, John listens to him getting up and putting on the kettle. He considers closing and locking the bathroom door, but doesn’t bother, instead watching Sherlock’s pale face appear in the doorway in the mirror. As the wound is revealed, freshly sealed skin a collage of scarlet and plum and burgundy, Sherlock’s face takes on a mildly pinched look.

“You’re healing very quickly,” he states, but his uncertainty makes it sound like a question, a bid for more information.

John licks his lips, doubt and the remnants of panic drying his mouth. “Yeah.”

Taking a step into the loo, Sherlock reaches for the fresh bandages. “May I?”

“I’ve got it, thanks.”

“John.”

Their gazes meet in the mirror. John sighs, trying to release his pride with the breath. “Yeah, fine. Fine.”

John holds still as Sherlock cleans and bandages his scarred, thickened skin, each privately coveted brush of Sherlock’s fingers sending aches through his body that seem to chastise him for his desire. John can’t bear to meet Sherlock’s eyes, afraid Sherlock will see his every thought on display on his face. When they’re finished, John’s arm back in its sling, Sherlock’s hand settles for a moment at John’s nape, clasping his neck. John closes his eyes as heat floods his body, willing himself not to gasp. 

In the kitchen, the kettle clicks off.

“Water’s boiled,” John says, eyes still closed and neck hot. 

Sherlock’s hand pulls away, fingers trailing along his skin in a way that could be deliberate, but John can’t tell. John opens his eyes to find Sherlock staring at him curiously.

“How can you tell?”

Doubt flashes through John. Sherlock has exceptional hearing. “Same way you can,” he hedges.

A skeptical eyebrow lifts. “You counted the seconds since I put it on?”

Settling his face into its blandest expression, John shrugs in agreement and manages not to squirm under Sherlock’s narrowed gaze. With a thoughtful hum Sherlock exits the loo, leaving John to lean over the sink, squeezing his eyes shut as he focuses on lowering his heartrate.

John knows where Sherlock’s priorities lie. He’s probably flattering himself to think he even makes top three in that list. And yet, while Sherlock changed his bandages, John scented a hint of something curled within the musk of Sherlock’s skin. It lingers still, just barely detectable through the sharp tang of anxiety: a warm, enticing aroma.

John wonders if he’s suffering of brain damage from the concussion.

 

They’re in less of a rush to get to Devon this time, so John manages to convince Sherlock to wait for the next day’s evening train rather than try to catch a quicker, but more expensive, plane ride.

“Besides, I’m sure you need to do some finagling over the phone with the Dartmoor police force.”

“I don’t ‘finagle’. I’ll offer my highly impressive services –” Sherlock ignores John’s rude snort, “– and they’ll gladly accept.”

The first day passes about as smoothly as it can, considering John’s arm aches, he’s already fed up of using his non-dominant hand for everything, and Sherlock fluctuates between being over-solicitous of his injury and completely ignoring him. His current situation is painfully similar to when he was first discharged, and John tries to sleep as much as he can to speed the healing process. By the second day, Sherlock is impatient to leave and tetchy, insulting John’s one-handed typing when he tries to occupy himself with his blog, then deriding his intelligence when John attempts to start a conversation with him instead. By mid-afternoon, when Sherlock spoils the ending of the book John is reading, John loses patience, calls Sherlock a child and gets up to go to hide in his room.

“Where are you going?” Sherlock demands from the couch, a curled ball of petulance and annoyance.

“Making a tactical retreat,” John retorts, holding his arm stiffly as he takes the first step.

With an excess of flailing, Sherlock gets up and stalks across the room to stand at John’s back. “Don’t be an idiot. I told you to use my room.”

“Don’t really feel comfortable in enemy territory, thanks.”

“I’m not your enemy,” Sherlock snaps, an edge to his voice that makes John pause where he is on the second step. He remembers their little debate the first night of their meeting – when Sherlock called him across town to send a text – about enemies and friends, and realizes he may have just inadvertently hit a nerve.

Turning around, John takes the rare opportunity to look down on Sherlock. He considers his flatmate, who still looks annoyed, but also uncomfortable, and a bit like he’s going to vibrate out of his skin. No surprise there – he’s been cooped up playing nurse to John for over a week. “Well it feels like I’m under attack. If you need to get out, go. You don’t need to babysit me.”

“That’s not – I’m not –” Sherlock huffs in frustration and John can only stare. Sherlock is so rarely lost for words. With a breath, Sherlock changes track. “How can you just sit and read and calmly _wait_ when there’s work to be done?”

“Because the alternative is to impatiently wait and drive yourself mad. Either way you’re waiting, but your method is much more detrimental to everyone’s mental health.”

Sherlock sneers, a vicious, ugly expression, and John’s not sure if he’d rather punch it off or kiss it away. “I suppose with the few brains cells you do have you’re right to be excessively concerned for their health.”

The punching urge wins. “Yeah, okay.” With a sniff and a nod, John turns and marches up the stairs, leaving Sherlock’s irate sputtering behind him. “Come get me once you’ve advanced beyond the emotional maturity of a toddler.”

“That’s the level I’m forced to lower myself to in order to maintain a conversation with you,” Sherlock snaps at his back.

“You’re ridiculous!”

“You’re illogic--!”

John smothers Sherlock’s last word with the satisfying slam of his bedroom door.

 

After clumsily, one-handedly packing a small bag for their trip, he ends up falling asleep propped up against his headboard with his book on his chest. He may know the ending, but he’s going to read it anyway, just out of spite. He snaps awake to Sherlock looming over him and groans. Sherlock offers a glass of water in one hand and two pills in the other, the only apology John is going to get. John hates it, this weakness, hates the way he must look through Sherlock’s eyes: handicapped and burdensome. He quickly takes the pills without making eye contact.

“You’d think, as a doctor, you’d be aware of the dangers of sleeping sitting up in your condition,” Sherlock states. “But doctors really do make the worst patients, I suppose.”

“Shut up,” John grumbles and swallows the pain-killers. A whiff of paper and ink rises from Sherlock’s skin, his own scent slightly muted. He smells apologetic, John realizes. There’s deep orange sunlight trickling through his window now, and John wonders –

“It’s nine o’clock,” Sherlock says before John can ask. “The train leaves in ninety minutes.” He picks up John’s bag propped by the door and disappears back down the stairs without another word. John sighs, rubs the sleep from his eyes, and follows as per usual.

 

The station is a noisy, smelly nightmare, and by the time they shut themselves in their compartment, John’s head is pounding and he’s fighting nausea. He could swear he’s got a dozen different perfumes and colognes clogging his nose, with _eau de B.O._ and train exhaust thick in the back of his throat. He must look as poorly as he feels, because Sherlock looks mildly alarmed when they take their seats and Sherlock gets a good look at him.

“Are you going to be ill?”

Leaning back and closing his eyes, John swallows with some difficulty. “No,” he says, willing his body to listen.

They are silent for a moment, John breathing subtly through his mouth. Then, hesitantly: “Are you in pain?”

John squints at him. Sherlock’s leaning towards him, poised as if he’s about to get up. His face is calm except for the slightly pinched set of his lips and the politely concerned tilt of his eyebrows. “Just a bit of a headache,” John offers.

“Should you take another –”

John shakes his head. “Can’t for another few hours.” He means to leave it at that, but Sherlock is still looking at him, and the longer they sit here, the more Sherlock’s scent permeates the small space. John can smell the grimy, used smell of the compartment overlaid by Sherlock’s distinct scent – the wool of his coat, the product styling his hair, the oils of his skin – and John is struck by the oddness of it all. Off balance, doubting himself, he blurts, “I think I’m suffering from synesthesia.”

If anything, the concern on Sherlock’s face deepens as he goes from worrying about John’s physical infirmity to his mental one. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a rare condition that affects perception of the senses – there have been cases of people developing it after brain injury.”

“I’m aware of the phenomenon,” Sherlock says impatiently, his stare piercing as if he’s trying to look through John’s skull. “But your concussion was mild. Hardly a traumatic brain injury.”

John shrugs with his good shoulder. “I know it’s unlikely.”

Sherlock continues to stare. “Well? What change of perception are you allegedly experiencing?”

“I think I’m smelling emotions. Or possibly sounds. I’m not sure, but it started when I woke up in hospital.”

Curiosity alights in Sherlock’s eyes. If he leans any closer he’ll fall off his seat. “What do you smell?”

Closing his eyes, John inhales and thinks. “Dust, wool, mold, something sweet…perfume maybe? Or bubble gum? I can smell you, too.”

“What do I smell like?”

John licks his lips as he considers. “You don’t smell _like_ anything. You just smell like you. And your poncy hair product.” He opens his eyes to catch Sherlock surreptitiously sniffing at his collar.

“I don’t smell anything,” Sherlock admits, eyes narrowed like he thinks John’s having him on. “Do the scents shift when I speak? Or when you hear different sounds?”

“No, you smell the same.”

“What emotion do I smell like then?”

“Dunno, just you. Calm, I guess.”

Sherlock scrunches his nose in displeasure. “Details, John! If you have synesthesia, the scents would be unique for each emotion or sound.”

“You pretty much always smell the same unless you’re angry or afr – stressed. Then you still smell like you, but more…metallic almost. Bitter maybe?”

An attendant peeks in at them. She smells like baby formula and nail polish. “Coffee or tea, gentlemen?”

Sherlock ignores her completely, staring at John like a particularly interesting mold sample. A feeling not unlike dread begins to unfurl under that look. “Two coffees, thanks,” John requests. Sherlock probably hasn’t slept in ages and John feels exhausted already, but he’s not about to attempt to sleep on the train with his arm the way it is. While she pours their beverages, he points a stern finger at Sherlock. “Not an experiment.”

“Cream or sugar?” the attendant asks.

John turns his head fractionally in her direction while keeping his eyes on Sherlock, who suddenly appears a tad shifty. “No cream. Sugar for him.” Sherlock meets John’s gaze coolly with a raised eyebrow, but John’s having a moment, a niggling, a thought. It dawns on him slowly, like the slow withdraw of the tide, before crashing over him like a tsunami. “Oh, my God.”

“Sir?” The attendant holds out a paper cup towards him, but John’s too distracted to take it.

“The sugar. In my coffee. And the lab!”

Sherlock has the good grace to look away, holding out a hand for his coffee instead. “I had to.”

“You drugged me! And then locked me in that bloody lab.”

“John, do take your coffee so she can run away.”

John takes his coffee. She doesn’t quite run away, but she does move to the next compartment very quickly. “I was scared half to death!”

“I thought the drug was in the sugar, so I put the sugar in your coffee. I knew the effect it had on a superior mind, but not on an average one. Oh, don’t start.” John reluctantly swallows his offense. “I knew you’d be fine.”

John scowls, wanting to berate Sherlock, to yell at him, but knowing it’s useless. If he ever needed further proof of Sherlock’s priorities, this is it. The bitterness doesn’t abate however, so John takes great pleasure in pointing out, “You were wrong, though.”

“Excuse me?”

“You thought the drug was in the sugar, but it wasn’t.”

Sherlock’s face twists into a moue of embarrassment and frustration. “I got it a bit wrong.”

“It wasn’t in the sugar,” John insists. “You got it _wrong_.”

“Fine, yes!” Sherlock admits sulkily. “Won’t happen again.”

They both sip their coffee, glaring at each other. Then Sherlock’s lips twitch. John sniffs. Sherlock chuckles and John can’t help but echo him, then they’re laughing like loons, nearly spilling their coffee on the floor.

“God, I hate you sometimes,” John gasps, still laughing, and Sherlock’s eyes soften.

“I know,” he says.


	4. Chapter 4

“What do you smell now?” Sherlock asks, once they’ve settled in their rented car and are en route to the inn, the sun still hidden below the horizon.

John senses that this is the beginning of a pattern. “God, I shouldn’t have mentioned anything.”

Sherlock badgers him the whole drive, prattling on about the usefulness of scent in crime detection and the connection between scent and memory. He only shuts up once they park and exit the car, the sudden silence jarring. John looks at him askance, but Sherlock’s face is completely neutral.

Gary and Billy greet them with shocked exuberance, abandoning a customer to converge on them. “Last we heard, the lot of you were lifted out in a helicopter,” Billy exclaims, Gary nodding along. “Wasn’t until the next day, when the place was swarming with police, that we found out that scientist fellow had been killed. We knew something had happened to you two when you didn’t show up in the morning, but the police wouldn’t tell us a thing.”

“Except about Rufus,” Gary interjects, and Billy’s gaze lowers.

“Rufus?” John wonders.

“Their dog,” Sherlock says at the same time that Billy and Gary say, “Our dog.”

“Oi, can I get my room key or what?” demands the abandoned customer.

Billy frowns at him before turning to unlock a cupboard, finding the right key, and shoving it at the customer. “Don’t lose it,” he warns, “Or it’s twenty quid.”

The customer waves with ill grace and shuffles off.

“Oh, speaking of keys,” John mutters, delving into his pocket with his good arm. “Here’s ours.” He places their old room key on the counter, hoping the inn-keepers won’t notice that the corner of the number tag is cut off – it was that or return it blood-stained.

“Oh, ta!” Billy says. “I think that room is free if you want it again.”

“No, we’ll take a double,” Sherlock says quickly and John glances at him in surprise.

Billy eyes John’s sling and frowns. “Of course, your arm! Wouldn’t want him to roll into you by accident.” He turns back to the cupboard to get a different key while John tries not to grimace.

“So, what really happened to you out there?” Gary stage-whispers.

Before John can begin to think of what to say, Sherlock interjects, “What were you saying about…Rufus?”

“Oh, right,” Gary says, looking to Billy, who rejoins them while twisting a key in his hands. Gary puts a hand on Billy’s shoulder as their silence lengthens.

The ache in his arm making him impatient, John says, “We know you didn’t have him put down.”

Both men look at him with surprise and guilt. “We’re sorry,” Billy exclaims. “We couldn’t do it.”

“We knew he was vicious, but when it came down to it…” Gary trails off.

“What did the officer tell you?” Sherlock demands.

“She told us that Rufus was shot and didn’t make it,” Gary says gruffly. “But we wanted to know if he’d attacked anyone.”

“She said there was no indication that he’d bitten or scratched anyone,” Billy says, sniffling subtly.

“Right,” Gary agrees. “No blood on his teeth or claws or anything. So at least we didn’t have that on our conscience.”

“First elimination,” Sherlock murmurs.

“Sorry?” John asks him, but Sherlock only hums.

They stand awkwardly for a moment, Sherlock lost in thought. John clears his throat and reaches for his wallet. “Right, well, I’ll just pay for that room, then.”

“Oh, no, no,” Billy argues, holding out the key for him. “After the trouble we’ve caused with Rufus, it’s free of charge.”

“Oh, ta,” John says. “That’s very kind.”

“If you don’t mind us asking,” Gary says, “after all that’s happened, what brings you back here?”

“Just enjoying the scenery,” Sherlock says blithely, then picks up their bags and heads for the stairs. “Come along, John.”

With a nod and a tight smile, John grabs the key and follows.

“What did you mean, ‘first elimination’?” John asks as they settle into their room, John claiming the bed closer to the door.

“Just thinking aloud,” Sherlock says distractedly, scrolling through his mobile.

“Did you think that Rufus attacked me? Because I shot that first dog, which I’m assuming was Rufus. Or do you think I missed?” A cold feeling of dread settles in his gut. He was so sure that he shot that dog dead, but if he actually missed, or only wounded it, just for the angered beast to attack… He can’t help but imagine the beast attacking Greg or Sherlock instead of him, because he missed his shot.

With an exasperated sigh, Sherlock snaps, “I thought it might have been a possibility. But we now know that _Rufus_ is not a suspect.”

“Good,” John breathes, hands clammy. “I swear I didn’t miss.”

A sudden stillness settles over Sherlock’s shoulders. “I know, John. You’re not the one who can’t protect your friends.” He presses a button on his mobile so violently John’s surprised the screen doesn’t shatter, than raises the mobile to his ear.

“No, Sherlock, that’s not –”

“Detective Inspector Cavanaugh?” Sherlock says. “Yes, it’s Sherlock Holmes. Is the site ready for us? Yes,” he sighs, “yes, I know. We’ll be there in twenty.” He stuffs his mobile in his coat pocket and sweeps out the door.

“Sherlock, that’s not what I –” John tries again, trailing after him.

“D.I. Cavanaugh has been kind enough to grant us access to the crime scene under supervision,” Sherlock steam rolls over him, rushing down the stairs. John locks the door behind them and has to nearly run to catch up.

Well acquainted with Sherlock’s selective hearing, John gives up. “Wait, Cavanaugh? Mina Cavanaugh from the hospital?”

“Ah, you were paying attention.”

“No need to be snooty,” John grumbles, carefully getting into their car without jostling his aching shoulder.

They drive in silence, John admiring the landscape and Sherlock’s eyes firmly fixed on the road until they park on the edge of the forest next to two police cars. D.I. Cavanaugh leans against one of the vehicles, arms crossed as she waits for them. John turns to open his door, sucking in a silent breath as his shoulder throbs, but is stopped by Sherlock’s hand on his good arm.

Turning, John watches Sherlock offer him two pills and a bottle of water. An embarrassed flush heats the back of John’s neck. “I’m fine.”

“John,” Sherlock says in his ‘don’t be an idiot’ voice. It makes John even less willing to take the pills from him. He should have just taken his meds when they arrived at the inn.

“I can wait,” John insists.

Sherlock sighs in exasperation. “There are times when it is necessary to push through the pain, but this is not it. You’re not being brave, John, you’re just being stupid.”

Somehow, the insult is comforting. John scowls at him, but takes the pills. Sherlock doesn’t even wait for him to swallow them before he practically leaps from the vehicle, striding over to shake D.I. Cavanaugh’s hand. John follows at a more leisurely pace.

“Dr. Watson,” she greets him, lips curved in the hint of a smile. “It’s good to see you on your feet.”

“It’s good to be on my feet,” John agrees, as they begin the trek through the trees.

Stalking ahead of them, Sherlock says, “I hope the site has been well-preserved.”

“As well as it can be, considering it’s been over two weeks. All of the evidence has been collected for examination, but everything is flagged and documented. It was a hell of a time the first two days,” Cavanaugh says to John. She looks completely at ease, and yet John’s nose tickles unpleasantly with her scent. There’s a bitterness to it that he can’t identify. “We had to figure out how to deactivate those pressure sensitive aerosol pads.”

The walk seems to take ages, the pathway unrecognizable in the light of day and without the howls and cries of night’s creatures. With his left arm in the sling, John feels off balance, nearly stumbling twice. When they arrive at the Hollow, the first thing John sees is the immense tarp that’s been erected to shield the evidence from rain, little yellow flags dotting the mud. The three of them stop at the lip of the Hollow, Sherlock’s eyes darting as he takes in the scene, John staring at the marked area of torn up earth where John had been mauled and Frankland killed. There’s a scent here, pungent and oily, that makes John’s skin prickle and his guts clench. There’s a tightness in the back of his throat, like a cough begging to be released, and he feels his lips curling in distaste.

“Cavanaugh!” greets the officer on guard duty, walking along the lip of the Hollow to greet them.

“Spencer,” Cavanaugh nods. “Care to show the boys around?”

Spencer, a heavy-set man with a large moustache and bushy eyebrows, holds out a hand first to Sherlock, then to John. “You must be Sherlock Holmes. And John Watson. Pleasure. Allow me to lead you down.”

“Oh, I’m sure we can manage,” Sherlock begins stiffly, clearly unwilling to be chaperoned.

“It’s no problem!” Spencer booms. “No problem at all! We’ve got a little path set up, just this way.”

John sees Sherlock’s jaw clench and nudges him. With a huff Sherlock follows Spencer down into the Hollow, followed by John and then Cavanaugh.

“You’ve given us quite a puzzle with this one,” Spencer remarks, navigating the muddy descent with a deftness that is surprising for such a large man. “Been scratching our heads for over two weeks now.”

“How comfortingly familiar,” Sherlock mutters. John’s too distracted by the horrid stench of the place to rebuke him, subtly breathing through his mouth.

They reach the bottom and Spencer turns with a frown. “Care to enlighten us, then?”

“Not really,” Sherlock says, immediately crouching until his nose is inches from the ground.

John clears his throat. “We’re a bit confused as to the events ourselves,” John admits, drawing Spencer’s attention before Sherlock can insult the man further. “The fog, you know.”

“Right, right,” Spencer nods, glancing at Cavanaugh. “What a hassle we had with those scientists, eh, Cavanaugh? You’d think they’d be more eager to help seeing as one of their own was involved.”

“Official secrets,” she snorts in agreement.

John watches as Sherlock shuffles along the marked path, crouching and standing suddenly at random intervals. “How many sets of footprints did you find?” John asks.

“Well, most of the prints were in a muddle, but we found eight,” Cavanaugh says. “Four matching each of your shoes – yours, Mr. Holmes’s, Dr. Frankland’s and Mr. Knight’s – two from the paramedics, and two unique canine prints – one matching the dog you shot, you know, the one belonging to those innkeepers.”

John nods. “And the other?”

Cavanaugh hesitates and Spencer frowns.

“Those are the odd ones,” Spencer admits. “Look here.” He leads the way to a yellow flag and points. John follows his finger, feeling his heartrate increase at the sight.

The paw print is immense, almost two hand-spans across, with claw marks gouged deep into the earth. John senses Sherlock step up behind him and they all stand silently, looking at the deep impression in the mud. Some of the leaves are stained brown with blood, and John recognizes the shape of his own shoulders in a marked pit. The paw prints have left the ground shredded, but they only appear in a small section of the Hollow.

“It’s as if it fell from the sky,” John mutters. “Then got plucked back up again.”

Only silence from behind him and John turns. Sherlock’s brow is burrowed as he glares at the tracts, trying to make sense of what he sees. He’s pale, with a light film of perspiration at his hairline, which is so uncharacteristic that John turns completely to face him. “Hey, you okay?”

“Fine.” He swallows thickly and jerks his head in Spencer’s direction. “Did your people trample some of the tracts?” he demands. “Are there pictures at least?”

Spencer’s lips tighten with annoyance. “All proper procedure was followed – we know what we’re doing. This is how we found the scene, and there are more photos at the station that I’m sure Cavanaugh would be delighted to show you.”

“Fine, I’m done here,” Sherlock says and stalks off the way they came.

John hesitates, staring down at the remnants of that night’s devastation left in the mud. His shoulder throbs and his head aches as he tries to make sense of it. All he remembers are flashes of burning eyes, grey fur and glistening teeth, the stench of dog breath, the feeling of his body being crushed into the ground and of knives tearing into his shoulder. And just to the side of where he lay bleeding, markers indicate the placement of Frankland’s body.

A hand lands on his good shoulder and John startles. “John?” Sherlock stands beside him and John glances around. The police officers are off to the side, watching them from the treeline, while Sherlock’s face hovers uncertainly over John’s.

“Why didn’t he run?” John wonders, gesturing at the markers of Frankland’s body. “He had the perfect distraction, but was shot right by me and the wolf.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “I need to see the photo evidence.”

 

The lack of sleep weighs heavily on John during the drive back into town, his eyelids slipping closed involuntarily. The sun is warm through the car’s windows and the medication makes his shoulder easy to ignore. He snaps awake when the vehicle comes to a stop and looks around in surprise.

“We’re back at the inn?”

“You’re no use to me half-awake,” Sherlock says. “Go get some sleep and I’ll meet you later.”

“What? No, I’m fine,” John insists. “I want to see the evidence, too.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice softens. “You’re exhausted. Take a nap and you can join me at the station later.”

He wants to protest, but Sherlock’s right – he’s exhausted, his head feels like it’s full of cotton, and he’ll be useless at analyzing the evidence. Well, more useless than usual at any rate.

“Fine,” he grunts, and gets out of the car. “Don’t have too much fun without me.”

Sherlock chuckles. “No promises.”

The sound of Sherlock driving away fades as John closes the inn’s door behind him. He waves vaguely at Bill, trudges up the stairs to their room, and gingerly lies on his back on his bed. He can hear the muffled sounds of people talking, televisions blaring, dishes clinking, and showers running. It all seems to run together into a soothing blanket of sound. 

He feels like he’s only been asleep for minutes when he wakes to late afternoon sunlight shining in his face and the sound of polite knocking on his door.

“Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson, are you awake?”

John breathes deeply to dispel the weight of sleep. “Just a moment,” he calls, getting up and shuffling to unlock the door. “D.I. Cavanaugh,” he greets with some surprise. “Is everything alright? Where’s Sherlock?”

“Oh, everything’s fine, he’s still at the station.” Her dark hair is pulled back in a tight ponytail, her expression softened by a smile.

“Ah, and he sent you to fetch me, did he?”

She snorts. “I can imagine him trying that, but no. I was starving so I decided to take a break to get some sandwiches.” She holds out a plastic bag ostensibly containing said sandwiches. “He kept talking to you as if you were there, so I offered to pick you up on my way back to the station. Figured you’d be hungry so I got you a sandwich, too. Hope you like ham and cheese.”

“Love it.” John grins, surprised and pleased by the gesture. “Thanks. Just give me a minute and I’ll meet you downstairs.”

He quickly washes his face with cold water, changes his shirt, swallows a couple more painkillers, and trots down the stairs.

They practically inhale their sandwiches at a table, too hungry to talk much. John does learn that Cavanaugh transferred to Dartmoor only three months ago after a nasty divorce, eager for a fresh start. She laughs at the way his eyebrows raise at her bluntness.

“Not much for small talk,” she admits. “I’d rather just get straight to the point.”

John swallows the last of his tea. “I feel like you and Sherlock could get on very well,” he says.

“You think?” She wipes her mouth with a napkin. “He seems a bit sensitive to me, actually. I think I’d accidentally offend him.”

He’s surprised again, this time at her insightfulness. “Not many people see that about him.”

She chuckles. “I promise not to let on that I’ve discovered his dark secret.”

“Be sure that you don’t,” he warns, mock seriously. “I’m half afraid of what you’ve discovered about me.”

She narrows her eyes as she studies him with overdone seriousness. “I get a bit of an underdog vibe from you. Kind of a deep, dark and mysterious thing going on. Or maybe tall, dark and handsome without the tall and dark.”

He lightly bangs the table with his palm. “One out of three? I’ll take it.” He’s enjoying their banter. She’s an attractive woman, but he can tell she’s not interested in him, and he’s fine with that. John’s never been averse to some flirting just for the sake of it.

She grins and stands, straightening her police uniform. “Alright, Dr. Watson,” she says. “Back to work.”

 

Her police vehicle is clean and uncluttered, yet from the moment John’s buckled his seatbelt, his nose is tingling. He sniffles and looks at the dash, wondering if it’s the thin layer of dust bothering him, and his eye catches on an ornament dangling from the rear-view mirror.

“Gorgeous, isn’t it?” Cavanaugh says, noticing his interest.

“What type of flower is it?” John asks. Encased in a glass vial is a healthy green stem supporting three flowers, their purple, bell-shaped petals pressed against the glass.

“Aconite, commonly known as monkshood or wolfsbane.”

John glances at her in surprise. “Isn’t monkshood poisonous?”

“Oh, yes, very if ingested. It’s not meant to be handled without gloves either. But I just love it.”

Bemused, John shakes his head. He sniffles and tries to ignore the bitter smell. “I am more and more convinced that you and Sherlock would get along splendidly.” He sniffles again.

“He fond of flowers?”

“Poisons,” John corrects. The tingling in his nose is making its way down his throat, a dull burning sensation starting in his nostrils. He clears his throat. “He’s got an index the size of my head.”

“Ah, well I don’t know many poisons, other than the ones I come across in work. You alright?”

John coughs and rubs at his burning nose. “Fine,” he says, embarrassed.

“Allergies?”

The burning has reached his throat. He shudders as the tingling starts deep in his chest. He coughs again. “I don’t know.” His voice comes out croaky. He frowns. “I don’t have any allergies.”

“Well, you’ve probably never been exposed to some of the vegetation out here,” she offers, glancing at him in concern. “Did you have any reactions last time you were here?”

Shaking his head, John coughs again and takes a deep breath of the bitter-scented air, disconcerted by the irritation in his lungs. He rolls down the window and turns his face into the breeze. His next breath is immediately easier, but the bitter, tingling sensation has invaded his body. He’s suddenly struck by nausea and dizziness.

“John?” Cavanaugh snaps, alarmed.

“Sorry,” he rasps. “I think I need to go back to the inn.”

“You sure?”

He nods. “Probably just a nasty reaction to my medication.”

She makes a U-turn and drives back the short distance in silence, letting John stick his head out her window like a dog. It makes no sense that a single flower should cause such a reaction, though he’s certain that the flower is the source of that bitter, tingling smell. By the time they’re back at the inn, he’s convinced that either his sandwich was off, or that he should be taking it easier on the painkillers.

It’s sheepishly that he gets out of Cavanaugh’s car no more than five minutes after getting in it. “I’m so sorry,” he croaks. “This is really embarrassing.”

“No, no, you just take care of yourself, alright? Sherlock would bite my head off if I let you go into anaphylactic shock or something.”

“He wouldn’t even notice,” John jokes. “Five bucks says he’ll still be talking to me as if I’m there once you get back.”

“I’m not betting against that,” she laughs.

For the second time that day, John listens to a car driving away as he trudges into the inn.

 

It takes coughing like his late, chain-smoking grandfather for ten minutes before his lungs feel clear, and two glasses of water before the burning in his throat has subsided. He’s sipping on the third glass when he hears the sound of a speeding vehicle skid to a stop outside the inn. Engine off, door slammed, rapid footsteps. He would recognize that pounding tread anywhere and opens the door expectantly as Sherlock appears on the landing.

He’s wind-blown and slightly breathless, and John feels his own heartrate pick up in excitement. Sherlock’s scent is tinged with wildness. “What have you found?” John asks, still a bit wheezy but ready for action.

Sherlock freezes right where he is on the landing, staring at John blankly.

Eyebrows raised, John waits. “Well? Should I get my coat?”

Sherlock stares for another moment. Finally he blinks and pushes past John into the room, closing the door behind him. “You’re okay?”

“Oh, did Mina say something?” John sighs. “Yeah, I’m fine. Think I ate something off. And she had this weird flower that I think I’m allergic to.”

“You don’t have any allergies.”

John shakes his head, lips pursed. “You hacked my medical records.”

“Possibly.” Sherlock takes a moment to glance around the room. “Your throat’s sore? And your nose was irritated.”

“Sherlock,” John says, exasperated. “I’m fine. What did you find at the station? I’m assuming we’ve got somewhere to be with the way you rushed up here.”

“No. I mean, yes, but no.”

John rubs his forehead. “What?”

Sherlock sits on John’s bed and John feels a sudden spike of annoyance. Sherlock was the one that insisted on the double room, he could sit on his own damn bed.

“ _Mina_ ,” Sherlock begins with distaste, “said she was going to pick you up. Then she got back and you weren’t with her, and I knew you wanted to see the evidence, so either she changed her mind or something happened that made you unable to come. But I could tell by her sleeves that she’d been in the inn, had eaten her sandwich, so she’d seen you but you decided not to come with her to the station.”

It takes a moment, but John manages to sift through that verbal sand pile for the grains of meaning. “You abandoned the investigation to check on me?” he asks, utterly confused.

“Oh,” Sherlock swipes a hand through the air as if to dispel the very notion, “I was done for the day. I was only waiting so I could walk you through everything.”

“Ah.” John nods, the world righting itself again. “Well, thanks anyway. Now shove over and tell me what you’ve found.”

“I’d rather not,” he says, but scoots over so John can sit next to him.

“What? Why?”

“I need to think. And it will be good for you to see everything with fresh eyes tomorrow. Your theories, while often wrong, tend to lead my thoughts in the right direction. It’s quite useful.”

John glares. “You berk. You just said you were waiting at the station to walk me though everything.”

“I changed my mind,” he says primly.

“Get off my bed, then.”

“Why?” Sherlock complains, profoundly insulted.

“If you’re going to be all secretive then you do not deserve the privilege of my bed.” John presses a socked foot against Sherlock’s hip and pushes.

Sherlock grabs John’s ankle. “And if I told you my secrets?” 

Completely shocked, John inhales sharply and freezes. Heat rushes through him, originating from the point of contact between Sherlock’s hand and John’s ankle. He doesn’t mean it, John thinks. _Does he mean it?_ He waits to see what Sherlock will do, imagining his hand sliding up John’s shin, cupping his knee. When the hand in John’s mind begins creeping up his thigh, Sherlock blinks and shoves off the bed. He whirls away and John sags onto the mattress.

“We’ll head to the station early tomorrow,” Sherlock announces, making a fuss as he unzips his suitcase on his bed and rummages through his things. John knows for a fact that his pajamas are on the top and no rummaging is needed. “To make up for all the sleeping you’ve done today. I’ll order us something from that place around the corner for dinner. Any requests?”

John stays silent as Sherlock collects his toiletries and heads for the bathroom.

“No? You’re probably still full from the sandwich. I’ll just shower quickly first.” He closes and locks the bathroom door behind him.

As the water starts up, John squeezes his eyes shut and resists the urge to throw a pillow at the closed bathroom door.


	5. Chapter 5

They eat in silence, Sherlock ‘thinking’ and John brooding. Sherlock eats one chip for every three that he tears to shreds, and John is unreasonably irritated by the familiar idiosyncrasy. He turns on the small television in the room, mutes the volume with more force than necessary when Sherlock snaps at him that it’s distracting, and reads the subtitles while chewing. He turns it off after two minutes of the news anchor talking about Frankland’s death and Henry’s arrest.

“We should visit Henry,” John says, not expecting a response and not getting one until ten minutes later, when he’s placing their dirty cutlery on the single table in the room.

“It’s unlikely they’ll allow visitors but I’m sure you could ask _Mina_ to make an exception.”

It’s the second time he’s referred to her like that and John clenches his teeth, swallowing the urge to call him a ridiculous, jealous prat. Let him be jealous. John’s not about to reassure the overgrown child when Sherlock can’t even decide what he wants.

Escaping to the bathroom, John spends twenty minutes showering, brushing his teeth and changing his bandages. In a few days he won’t even need the sling anymore. When he’s done, he still doesn’t feel ready to face Sherlock, so he spends another five minutes drying his hair with the tiny hair dryer attached to the wall. Then he spends another five minutes staring at himself in the mirror, convincing himself he’s not having an existential crisis.

When he emerges, Sherlock is lying on his bed, hands under his chin, eyes closed. It’s only half nine and John’s not tired, but he turns off the lights and crawls under the covers anyway.

“We’re leaving at 7 tomorrow,” Sherlock says.

John closes his eyes. He’s restless, annoyed with Sherlock’s behaviour, annoyed with himself. He should have beat one off in the shower but he’d been too frustrated. Not to mention unable to use his dominant hand. He can’t decide if he should confront Sherlock and force the issue, or let it be. Surely Sherlock has realized the way John feels by now and simply needs time to choose a path of action. But John hates the hot and cold, has never been a fan of coyness in his partner unless he’s already confident of the relationship.

Granted, Sherlock is shockingly bad with emotions. Maybe he hasn’t really understood John’s stance – John hasn’t been explicit with his desires either. Maybe Sherlock just needs a figurative punch in the face to knock his brain into gear.

“I can hear you thinking from here,” Sherlock mutters into the darkness. “Go to sleep, John.”

“You go to sleep,” John retorts, and Sherlock chuckles.

With an effort, John tries to blank his mind. He’s running anatomy jargon through his head when he finally falls asleep. 

 

He dreams he is chasing the grey wolf. It’s running through the trees, powerful muscles pumping, four feet pounding into the ground, propelling the hound forward impossibly quickly. John is barely able to keep up, his weak human legs no match for the hound. As the distance between them increases, so does John’s anxiety. He _must_ keep up. He doesn’t know where to go otherwise.

Far ahead, through the trees, an explosion rocks the earth, the detonation lighting the sky. John’s weak human feet can no longer support him. He falls to his knees, lost.

 

Sherlock spends half of the night mentally kicking himself. What was he thinking, grabbing John’s ankle like that? _Saying_ something like that? All this damn sentiment is wearing down his control. He was admittedly anxious when Cavanaugh showed up at the station alone, and relieved to find John not deathly ill once he’d returned to the inn, but that is no excuse for his ridiculous slip. He shouldn’t be _encouraging_ John’s interest, for God’s sake. 

Sometimes it hurts Sherlock, physically hurts him, a deep ache in his guts and in his chest, to watch the way John wars with himself. John’s an adrenaline addict, a lover of danger and action. He also cares too much what people think. ‘People’ think John is mad to put up with Sherlock, that John will want to move out and settle down some day. Pretty wife, townhouse, two kids, nine-to-five job. John should want that. John wants to want that.

But what’s more dangerous than hooking up with a sociopathic consulting detective?

He’ll just have to distract John all day so he won’t have time to bring it up. If only John weren’t so bloody stubborn, otherwise Sherlock could hope that he’d forget about it.

He attempts to go over the evidence from the station again in his mind, but too many things are not adding up. Why were the large canine prints only found in the Hollow, not coming in or going out? Why hadn’t Frankland run when the second hound attacked? Why hadn’t Sherlock been able to shoot the hound?

His recent lack of sleep catches up to him around two, but he’s woken three hours later. He lies still, listening in the dark, before turning his head towards a quiet rustling. John is having a nightmare. Sherlock watches as John attempts to roll over onto his bandaged shoulder and whimpers in his sleep. A shot of adrenaline pulses through Sherlock’s system and he huffs in annoyance at his body’s betrayal.

At six oh-five, he gets off the bed to wash his face, brush his teeth, and change.

At six fifteen, he lays out a fresh pair of John’s jeans, pants, socks, a t-shirt and least ugly jumper on the foot of John’s bed.

At six twenty-eight, he places two of John’s pills and a glass of water on the bedside table, then scrolls through his mobile for the police siren alarm. He turns up the volume on his mobile to maximum.

At six thirty he presses play.

“Jesus, bloody – what,” John splutters, eyes snapping open as the wailing assaults his eardrums.

“Good morning,” Sherlock says loudly, over the siren.

“Turn it off,” John moans, hiding his face in the crook of his elbow.

Sherlock turns on the lights. “Get up,” he counters.

“Oh, my God, you maniac,” John hisses and throws off the covers. Sherlock turns off the alarm when John’s feet touch the ground.

“Good. Your medication is on the bedside table. Your clothes are on the bed.”

“Alright, alright, I’m going,” John mutters, still sitting and rubbing at his face. Sherlock tries not to find it endearing. The man has killed people.

“I’m going downstairs to order you eggs and toast. You better be up by the time I get back,” he warns, and escapes out the door before John can throw a pillow at him.

 

John swaps the jumper Sherlock set out for him with a more comfortable cable knit, partially to be contrary and also because he resents the implication that he can’t dress himself. Breakfast is a rushed affair, during which John stubbornly ignores Sherlock’s narrow-eyed glaring and restless foot tapping. He takes his time finishing his coffee just to be annoying, and by the time they’re driving away from the inn it’s three after seven, and John is impishly proud of those three minutes he made them late.

He’s decided to wait until after the case is solved before setting things straight with Sherlock. He doesn’t want to distract the consulting detective from The Work, and likes to think he’s not so inconsiderate as to put his own interests ahead of Sherlock’s. He is also aware that this is a convenient excuse to put off spilling his guts to a man who famously scorns sentiment.

It’s a fifteen minute drive to the station, which is nearly empty at this hour of the morning. Sherlock has obviously managed to wrest some amount of control of the place, because it takes nothing more than a brief greeting to the receptionist before they’re being led to an evidence room and left to their own devices.

There are photos and evidence bags scattered along the table, and notes spilling out a file folder on a chair. The room is infused with the same acrid, thick scent from the Hollow, and John rubs at his irritated nose with his sleeve. A splotch of red catches John’s eye, so he leans across the table to pull a photo closer. Frankland’s nude corpse was photographed on the ground, curled in the foetal position and covered in mud, leaves and blood, his back and side riddled with bullets.

“Cause of death’s fairly obvious,” John mutters, putting down the photo to pick up the next: Frankland’s body laid out on an autopsy table.

“Not so obvious,” Sherlock counters, and hands him a page of the autopsy report.

Scanning the notes, John frowns. “Traces of silver in his blood?”

A sealed medical container holding a blood-stained bullet is held in his direction next. “Silver coated bullets,” Sherlock says.

“From Henry’s gun?” John looks up from the bloody bullet to Sherlock, who nods. “Why would he buy silver bullets?”

“He didn’t. The gun and bullets belonged to his father, who was apparently something of an enthusiast.”

“So, what? The silver bullets were a…relic? Curiosity item?”

“Possibly.”

Next Sherlock passes John a pair of nitrile gloves and a bag that absolutely reeks. John’s forced to take shallow breaths, tasting the oily scent at the back of his throat, as he slowly opens the bag one-handed and pulls out what looks like strips of mud-stained fabric.

“What do you smell?” Sherlock demands.

“It’s…I don’t know how to describe it.”

“Try.”

John glares. “I’m getting there, give us a moment.” He takes a cautious sniff and blinks hard as his eyes sting in reaction. “Bitter. Oily. Unnerving.”

“Unnerving isn’t a smell.”

“It’s less the scent itself and more my reaction to it. It makes me…angry.” Even as he says it, he knows that’s not quite accurate, but hardly knows how to describe the enraged turmoil in his gut. The scent is confrontational, it makes John want to back away and snarl at the same time. It makes him feel like he should do fifty push-ups to impress his crush and then punch the next guy that looks at him funny.

Sherlock snorts. “Angry. And you call yourself a writer.”

John huffs and decides to move on. “What am I looking at?”

“You tell me.”

The strips of fabric, John realizes as he pulls them from the bag, are what remains of Frankland’s clothes. Shredded trousers, button up and jumper, ripped coat, even his shoes look like a small bomb went off inside of them. It’s so bizarre, John isn’t sure what to think, mad theories swirling through his brain.

“Well?” Sherlock prompts.

“I don’t…Did the hound attack him too?”

“You saw the autopsy photos,” Sherlock snaps. “The only marks on him were from the bullets.”

“Maybe he stripped at some point? Could’ve been an odd reaction to the fog, like end-stage hypothermia victims. And then an animal tore up the clothes?”

“Or?”

“Or what?” John can’t stop staring at the destroyed trainers, leather burst like a peeled banana. “What, you don’t think he tore up his clothes himself? You’d need a knife for some of this.”

Sherlock shrugs. “Not enough data yet to say.”

They spend the next hour going through the rest of it, John scanning the written report. At one part the report describes Frankland’s clothes as ‘likely ripped apart in a psychotic episode’, which doesn’t sit well for some reason. The ballistics report is especially interesting, and John pauses in confusion at one paragraph, rereading it three times to make sure he understands properly. According to the report, several bullets from Lestrade’s gun were found scattered on the ground, deformed and blood stained. It’s as if they were swiped out of the sky, or surgically removed from someone or something.

He’s about to bring it up, but is distracted by the next set of photos in the folder. He grunts in surprise.

“What?” Sherlock asks.

The photos are of John’s injuries, and John flips through them as Sherlock looks at him across the table. “I don’t remember someone taking my picture,” John says, looking with a sort of morbid curiosity. His shoulder looks like it’s been through a blender, and John’s honestly surprised he’s standing here, looking at this picture of himself. He’s lucky he didn’t lose the arm. On the plus side, he thinks darkly, at least it got the shoulder that was already buggered up. Dread and anticipation fill him in equal measures at the thought of taking his sling off in a couple of days, testing his range of motion. The thought of all the future physio is enough to dampen his mood.

“I’ll help you with the physio,” Sherlock says. “And you should regain most of your previous mobility.”

“Not like I had much to begin – hey!” John looks up in shock. “How did you…?”

Smirking, Sherlock crosses his arms and leans a hip against the table, all suave arrogance. “I like to think I know you fairly well, and with some hints I can follow your thought process.”

“I didn’t even say anything!”

“You were looking at photos of your injury, which would naturally remind you of your time in the hospital after being shot. Then you tensed your lips in that way you only do when expressing your particular brand of dark humour, and wriggled the fingers of your left hand. Your eyes glazed over a bit in memory, so I knew you were thinking of your disability after being released from hospital after Afghanistan, and all the work you had to do to recover as much mobility of the arm as possible.”

“It seems so simple when you lay it out like that,” John says, awed and also feeling a bit raw. He looks down to organize the papers and put back the folder. “I know I say it all the time and I know you already know it, but your brain really is incredible.”

When John glances up, Sherlock is already engrossed in some other piece of evidence, but he does mutter a quiet thank you, and John could swear his scent is just the slightest bit sweeter.

They leave the station just after ten, at which point John is thinking of an early lunch.

“How can you be hungry _again_?” Sherlock demands, when he catches John gazing longingly at a fish ‘n’ chips stand.

“It’s part of the recovery process,” John says defensively. “My body needs energy to heal.”

Sherlock groans in exasperation, but drags John into a café, where they both get tea and John fails to convince Sherlock to eat half a sandwich. He pretends not to notice when Sherlock deftly snags a pickle off his plate. After that it’s back to the inn to change John’s bandages, and he’s pleased to see that he can get away with a much lighter dressing.

When he emerges from the bathroom, Sherlock holds out his coat for him.

“We heading somewhere?” John reaches out to take his coat, but Sherlock tuts at him and eases it on for him instead.

“Game for a little b and e?”


	6. Chapter 6

They stop at a petrol station to fill up the rental, John mildly amused by the sight of Sherlock impatiently holding the nozzle, his knuckles white as if squeezing harder will make the petrol come out faster.

Lowering his window, John sticks his head out. “How do you even know where Frankland lived? His address wasn’t in the files they let us see.”

Sherlock stares at him. “No, but it was in the files they didn’t provide.”

John rolls his eyes. “Right, don’t tell me, I don’t want to know. I’m not about to join Henry in his prison cell.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, they’d never put you in the same cell.”

John rolls his window back up.

 

Frankland lived fifteen minutes from Dewer’s Hollow and a good forty minutes from the inn, so it’s nearing noon by the time they pull up to the isolated house nudged between the trees. There’s police tape that Sherlock completely disregards and John tries not to feel guilty about.

“Any family taking care of the place now?”

“He was unmarried, no children. An older sister who lives in Australia.”

“So, no, then.” John glances around as Sherlock dons a pair of gloves, crouches at the front door and pulls out his lock picks. “And what are you hoping to find?”

“The files on the H.O.U.N.D. project at the lab barely scratched the surface. After the project was shut down, Frankland only became more obsessed, but he had to continue his work discretely.”

“You think he was mad enough to experiment with such a volatile substance in his own home?”

With a sinister creak, the door swings open and Sherlock looks up at him with a grin. “Let’s find out.”

Sherlock hands him a pair of gloves as they step into the abandoned house and closes the door behind them. Sherlock strides down the hallway like he owns the place and John resists the urge to tip-toe. “So is this for your personal curiosity?” he asks quietly. “How will finding his research help us?”

“The more we know about the drug the better, obviously,” Sherlock says at a normal volume, voice echoing through the house. “If we can prove the effects of what Henry was administered for years, we can get Henry off a charge of first degree murder.”

They snoop through the house, starting in the kitchen before moving on to the combined dining and living area, and then the office. The place is uncluttered, clean, and incredibly ordinary, with a few family photos on the walls, an empty beer bottle by the couch, expired milk in the fridge and folders full of taxes in the office. The upper level is a half floor, where John checks the medicine cabinet in the loo while Sherlock invades the bedroom.

“Most of the meds are pretty standard,” John says as he walks into the bedroom, finding Sherlock wrist deep in Frankland’s pants drawer. “What can you possibly need from the man’s undergarments?”

“Most common hiding spot. Which meds aren’t standard?”

“He had some pretty strong muscle relaxants. Not over-the-counter stuff.”

Sherlock thrusts a pair of black boxer-briefs at John’s chest. “Take these.”

“Ugh, _why_?”

“Experiment.”

“What?”

“Later.”

John sighs and also accepts a navy jumper, a white button up, and a pair of jeans. “Not my size, actually.”

Sherlock just sweeps out the door. “Nothing else here, come on.”

They make their way to the basement, John dumping the pile of clothes by the front door on the way. The door to the basement is padlocked and made of a heavy, galvanized steel.

“This looks promising,” John mutters.

Sherlock snorts and takes out his lock picks again. The door reluctantly swings open minutes later, and cement, dungeon-like steps lead to a mad scientist’s lab.

John whistles. “I’ll never complain about your chemistry set again.”

Beakers, petri dishes, pipettes and other glassware cover the long work table, two expensive-looking microscopes still holding slides, and lurking ominously beside the desk is a gas tank. There’s a fume hood, a sink, an eye-wash station and even an emergency shower. They wander closer, Sherlock going for the microscopes and John thumbing through a heavily notated bio-chemistry textbook lying open next to a mortar and pestle.

_“…reduction of aggression with increase of suggestibility? Inverse the proportionality…”_

_“…histamine, hyocretin, inhibit VLPO neurons. Potential permanent effects with sustained exposure…”_

The numerous desk drawers are filled with more glassware and paraphernalia, but John freezes at the sight of a cherry, Moroccan leather case, a frisson of uneasy familiarity running through him. He’s spotted Sherlock’s Moroccan case only once, in a brief flash as Sherlock stuffed it between the couch cushions, but John knew what he was seeing then and he knows what he’s found now. For a moment, John is tempted to slam the drawer shut, but forces himself to take out the case, knowing it could be used as evidence.

“Looks like Frankland kept a more personal stash of chemicals, as well,” he says casually, handing Sherlock the case for inspection. Sherlock turns the case around in his hands, eyes sharp and absorbing every detail, before unclasping and unfolding the leather. Inside are three vials of clear fluid and three capped syringes. Spots for a fourth vial and syringe are empty. John hates the sight of Sherlock’s fingertips skimming the smooth glass.  

“Not commonly used,” Sherlock remarks, closing the case again. “Nor recently.” He tucks the case in his coat pocket.

“What are you going to do with it?”

Sherlock eyes him sharply. “Test it in the station’s lab."

John stares at him and Sherlock meets his gaze evenly, unflinching, challenging, the moment lengthening until it threatens to shift into something else entirely. Then Sherlock turns away. John nods and goes back to perusing the contents of the drawer, trying to think through his pulse pounding in his ears. His eye catches on a small stack of Moleskine journals, battered and well-used, and he grabs the one sitting on top. Flipping through it, John finds pages bursting with cramped writing, ink smeared in some places and writing hardly legible in others.

There’s a loud, mechanized whirring, rupturing the basement’s quiet.

“John.”

John’s already striding towards him, notebook tucked into his pocket. Sherlock’s hand, pressed against a button on the wall, drops to his side as the solid, handle-less door finishes swinging open. Beyond is only darkness until Sherlock steps through the doorway and the room is abruptly illuminated. John follows more slowly, wide-eyed and gaping.

“Jesus.”

His first thought is that his life has turned into a film, because no one in real life has a dungeon in their basement. His second thought is that, if this is what he thinks it is, he’s not sure he wants to see any more, because he really has no interest in whatever kinky shit Frankland got up to in his free time. Then he looks, really looks, and for a moment doesn’t think anything at all.

The cellar-like room is entirely cement, with a surprisingly high ceiling and no windows. There are chains with manacles bolted into the back wall and into the floor. In a radius around the manacles, the floor, walls and even a couple spots on the ceiling are slashed and gouged, claws leaving pale scars in the cement.

Something very strong and very angry was tethered to that spot.

“Jesus,” John says again. The scent wafting from the room is pungent and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. It is bitter and oily – like Frankland’s shredded clothes, he realizes. He gets the strong sense that they shouldn’t be here. “So, this is where he kept it.”

“Kept what?” Sherlock asks.

John glances at him in amazement and barks a laugh. “The second hound! Or rabid dog or mutated lab experiment! Whatever the hell it was that attacked me.”

“There’s no dog food anywhere in the house. Not even a water dish.”

John forces himself to stalk further into the cellar and points at one of the more evident claw gouges. “I don’t think this thing ate kibble. He probably just let the beast out at night to hunt wildlife.”

“Let it out where?”

“What?”

“Where would Frankland have let it out? The only way out is the door we just came through, which only locks from the inside I might add.” Sherlock gestures at the excessive number of padlocks and bars meant to seal the heavy door shut – on the inside.

“Maybe it was tame enough to walk through the house,” John offers, bristling at Sherlock’s overly calm, borderline condescending tone.

“Then why the chains? And what’s the motive?”

“Bill and Gary had Rufus –”

“Yes, because it brought them more business to the inn.”

“Maybe this is where they kept Rufus.”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Something’s not adding up,” he says slowly, then falls silent, eyes going narrow and distant.

John watches him think for a minute before pulling out his mobile. He has already dialed, brought the mobile to his ear, and is about to say, “Hi, Mina?” when his mobile is snatched from his hand. “What the hell, Sherlock!”

Stuffing the mobile into his coat pocket, Sherlock glares at him. “Authorities will only slow us down.”

“We can’t just hide…” John waves an arm out in exasperation. “All this!”

Sherlock turns away, approaching the chains to further inspect them. “I don’t see why not.”

“There’s something called police investigation procedure –”

Sherlock scoffs and pulls out a pair of tweezers from his pocket. “Since when do you care about procedure?”

John scowls. “I’ve always cared. I let you get away with your usual crap –”

“Because it’s fun?”

“Because usually there’s a deadline and someone’s life is at risk,” John growls. “Frankland’s already dead and Henry’s already in jail. The least we can do is go through this investigation properly so we can prove Henry’s innocent.”

“He may not be innocent,” Sherlock points out, carefully plucking something from a chain link and tucking it into an evidence bag. “And if he is I can prove it.”

“Your word isn’t enough. We need to show Mina this.”

For a moment Sherlock pauses, then he snorts, tucking away the evidence bag.

“What’s funny?” John demands.

Straightening and turning, Sherlock smirks coldly. “You are.”

Taking a deep breath, John enquires politely, “Me?”

“Yes, you,” Sherlock says flatly, breaking eye contact to crouch and inspect a gouge in the floor. “Pretending to care about procedure and Henry.”

John flexes his jaw. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you have a vague doctorly concern,” Sherlock says, waving a dismissive hand. He shuffles along the gouge like a demented gargoyle. “But you don’t actually care about him personally. You only care about what people think you should do. God forbid _Mina_ should find out you’re the partner to a criminal like me.”

The ‘fuck you’ is on the tip of John’s tongue, but he manages to restrain himself. What he actually says is much worse. His only excuse is that Sherlock is pissing him off and the smell of the room is putting him on edge. “Just because you’re incapable of feeling empathy doesn’t mean we’re all freaks like you.”

The words are completely inaccurate and he regrets them immediately, but he can’t stand to be in this cell any longer, with its acrid stench and Sherlock’s surprised face. He flees.

 

He’s been marching down the gravel road for ten minutes before he remembers that Sherlock has his mobile, so he can’t even call a cab. He growls and resists the urge to stomp the ground like an infant. His emotions are a mess: he can’t decide if he’s more angry at Sherlock for being a dick and goading him, or at himself for falling for it and snapping back like an idiot. The clean air should be clearing his head, but his nerves are still vibrating with the memory of the cellar’s stench.

His shoulder aches with every step and the only thing stopping him from going back is his pride, but he keeps walking anyway. He remembers passing a petrol station about a mile from Frankland’s house and decides he’ll call a cab from there. It’s twenty minutes later and the petrol station is in sight when he hears the rental car approaching from behind. He stops walking when Sherlock brakes beside him. For a moment they’re frozen in space, then Sherlock rolls down the passenger window.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

With a sigh, John climbs into the car. “It’s not true what I said. And I’m still mad at you.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock mutters, shifting into first gear.

“Not really.”

They drive in silence. John can tell Sherlock is near bursting with his discoveries from Frankland’s house, but he can’t be arsed to ask about it right now. By the time they get back to the inn it’s late afternoon and John is hungry again.

“I need your assistance with an experiment,” Sherlock says as he parks.

“Alright,” John agrees. When they head inside, John heads for the bar and takes a seat.

“What are you doing,” Sherlock hisses. “I just said –”

“It can wait fifteen more minutes,” John counters. “Want anything? Bill and Gary offered us a free meal.”

With a sneer, Sherlock turns and stomps away.

Gary greets him with a sympathetic grimace. “Bit of a tiff?”

John smiles blandly. “I’ll have whatever’s on special.”

 

John heads up to their room twenty minutes later with a full belly and a level head. “Alright,” he says as he opens the door. “What do you need –” He stops at the sight of Sherlock in Frankland’s clothes, tearing at the button down like a toddler that hasn’t figured out how to take off a shirt yet. “What are you doing?”

“Experiment.”

John closes the door and slowly approaches. The jumper they stole is crumpled on the floor along with half the buttons of the white shirt Sherlock is attempting to tear with his teeth. “You sure?”

Sherlock glares and flaps a loose sleeve at him. “Come rip this off me.”

John’s eyebrows shoot up. “Um.”

“You read the police report. It said Frankland’s clothes were ‘likely ripped apart in a psychotic episode’. I’m testing to see if that is humanly possible.”

Scooping up the navy jumper, John notes the stretched fabric and ripped seams, but nothing resembling the shark attack on Frankland’s clothes at the station. “Looks like you already have your answer.”

“Just try to rip off this sleeve.”

“Fine,” John sighs, stepping closer and taking a firm grip of the sleeve with his good hand. “But for the record, I think this is pointless.”

“Noted,” Sherlock says. “Now pull.”

John pulls and Sherlock leans back, his hand trapped in the sleeve as they play this odd game of tug-of-war. Seams creek ominously and fabric strains. Both men grunt and shuffle their feet as they fight against each other, but John can feel his grip slipping.

“Sherlock,” he warns.

There’s a loud tearing sound just as the sleeve slips from John’s hand. With a yelp, John stumbles a few steps back while Sherlock trips and flops onto the bed behind him. Chuckling at the ridiculousness of it all, John comes to stand over him, looking at the rip Sherlock is inspecting at his shoulder.

“Yeah, unless he had scissors, there’s no way he tore up all his clothes by himself,” John concludes.

With a sigh, Sherlock lets his arm drop, lying spread out on the bed. The shirt is half open, exposing his pale chest and upper abdomen, which ripples and flexes with each breath. “I suppose you’re right. Bit of a long shot anyway.” He sits up, and John can’t help but notice the way his abdominals tense. The jeans are huge on him and have slipped halfway down his hips, exposing the black pants they’d nicked. The thought of Sherlock in another man’s pants is doing strange things to John’s head.

Swallowing, John holds out a hand to help him up. “What are your other theories?” Sherlock ignores his hand and stands, forcing John to take a step back as Sherlock’s chest fills his field of vision. The ripped sleeve has fallen off his shoulder, revealing whip-cord muscle and a pebbled nipple.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

The words are like a slap in the face. John’s eyes immediately dart up to Sherlock’s and he puts another three steps in between them. “Like what?”

“Like you want me,” he snaps, eyes narrowed but mouth unsure.

John gapes.

“Like I’m a woman who’s caught your eye in a pub. I’m not Sarah or Lynn or Nicole or Mina. I am not another one of your girlfriends, John.”

“I don’t – Jesus, Sherlock – I don’t think that,” John sputters, panic in the back of his throat. “And Mina’s not –”

“It’s a lie and it’s distracting,” Sherlock spits, ignoring his fumbling.

Like a cornered animal, John lashes out. “God forbid my emotions be distracting to you,” John nearly shouts, struggling to modulate his voice. “It’s not enough that I keep quiet – for your benefit, by the way, for the benefit of the case – but it’s not my fault you can read my mind!”

“Emotions,” Sherlock sneers, his voice a knife in the chest. “This is not the same and you know it. And I can’t help but read your mind when your eyes…”

“What, Sherlock? _Look_ at you? Admire you?”

Sherlock grinds his teeth in frustration. “You don’t know what you want.”

John barks an incredulous laugh. “I think I do. If only you’d let me ask for it.”

“I know what you can offer me, John, so listen to me very carefully,” he says, eyes burning and voice low, twisting the knife. “I am not interested.”

Frozen, John stares into Sherlock’s unapologetic eyes. He can’t see a lie in them, and yet the words do not ring true.

 _I don’t believe you_ , he wants to say, but he can’t bear another round of this. Instead, he shutters his expression as best he knows how and nods tightly. “Fine,” he says, turns on his heal and stalks out of the room.


	7. Chapter 7

John doesn’t know where he’s going. He realizes he’s been doing a lot of walking lately. It’s probably proportional to the amount of time he’s been spending with Sherlock.

He walks until it doesn’t feel like his heart is crawling up his throat, then inevitably finds his way to a pub. He takes refuge in the darkest corner table he can find, orders the strongest drink he thinks he can handle, then buries his head in his good hand.

“Fuck,” he groans. Why couldn’t Sherlock just let it be? John was going to wait until after the case, so as not to _distract_ the consulting detective, then he was going to bring up the topic for a respectful discussion. Sherlock would weigh the pros and cons of a romantic relationship with John, would probably make a spread sheet for God’s sake. But not like this, with Sherlock attacking and John barely getting a word in.

The server hands John his drink and leaves silently. Drinking will not help the confusion in John’s head, but he takes a long sip anyway. So much of that conversation made no sense.

_It’s a lie and it’s distracting._

_Emotions. This is not the same and you know it._

_What_ is a lie? And _what_ isn’t the same? And how can Sherlock compare himself to John’s exes? Sherlock is the _reason_ they are exes.

 _I know what you can offer me, John._ Does he really though?

_I am not interested._

John takes another drink, grimacing at the burn in his throat. Has he really misread all those quietly charged moments between them?

“John?”

Blinking in surprise, John looks up to find Mina standing by his table.

“It is you!” she exclaims, a smile breaking across her face. “Fancy seeing you here.” She holds out her hand and John stands, shaking it automatically. After a second of their hands making contact, John hisses and yanks his hand away. “Oh! Are you alright?”

She’s wearing a silver ring, John realizes. He’s never noticed it before.

“Yeah, sorry, I just…”John hesitates, trying to think of a realistic excuse. “I slammed my finger in a door earlier,” he says lamely.

For some reason, John thinks she looks sad as she looks at him.

“Well, small world, seeing you here,” he says, forcing a smile. He looks around the nearly empty pub and surreptitiously rubs his right hand on his jeans. “Literally.”

She smiles, but her eyes are serious. “I suppose it was pretty likely to run into each other outside of work. May I?”

John’s too polite to refuse, so they both settle at the table. “Any progress on the case?”

Her smile dims. “Not much. Frankland’s sister is flying in for the funeral tomorrow. It’ll be at the church on sixth street if you want to attend.”

John nods absently and takes a sip of his drink. “What time will the service be?”

“Eleven. Frankly, after reading up on his poison gas project, I say good riddance. Of course, the D.I. in me can’t say that but – oh, excuse me.” She pulls her ringing mobile out of her purse and presses it to her ear. “D.I. Cavanaugh.” Her lips tighten and John looks away politely. The only other people in the pub are the bartender and two men playing darts. “Alright, I’m on my way.” She hangs up and looks at John apologetically.

“Duty calls?” John asks.

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I’ve gotta run.” Her drink is only half finished, but she places a five pound note on the table and stands. “It was good to see you, John.”

He tips his drink at her. “You too.”

Once she’s gone, John frowns, rubbing his thumb over the spot where her ring burned him. He finishes his own drink, then reaches into his pocket for his wallet.

Instead he finds the journal from Frankland’s lab, shoved in his pocket and forgotten. Curious, he flips it open to the first page, noting the date from several years ago.

_My body aches and my wolf is more furious than he’s been in years. The sedative was a terrible idea but what choice did I have. Ellen wanted to see. She put on a brave face but I think I’ve scared her off for good. At least now she knows. Now she believes._

John flips to another page.

_I can barely contain my wolf’s voice this month. It’s been too long since a good hunt. HOUND is ready and I can’t keep him locked up any longer. God save anyone on the moor tonight._

Another page.

_I thought coming here would improve my control and my memory, but nothing has changed. My wolf is more satisfied after a night running under the moor’s moon, but I still have little recollection or control over what I do. It is only thanks to my cameras that I see the way my wolf hunts and runs, protecting his territory._

John continues reading feverishly, struggling to comprehend the meaning. Frankland wrote incessantly about his ‘wolf’, alternately describing it as himself and another creature. He wrote of hunting, of the pain of transformation, of the horrible muscle aches afterwards. John reads of the animals Frankland killed and his lack of control of the wolf, which was savage and did as it pleased. Most pages are cramped with writing, but one causes John to go cold.

_A girl was found mauled. WAS IT ME?_

The page is not dated, the writing erratic. The next page simply says _Emily McKinnon._

Immediately, John reaches for his mobile but comes up empty. He mutters an oath as he realizes Sherlock still has it. He flips through a few more pages, scanning notes on the development and failure of experimental products to control the wolf and retain his memory. Frankland seems to lose hope in this task, then John’s eye is caught again by Henry’s name.

_Twenties years since the bite today and what is my gift? Henry Knight has come home. Perhaps I’ll drop by as a friendly neighbour. Can’t have him sticking around too long. If he knows what’s good for him he’ll never come back to this place. Although it seems fitting that he should get to experience the HOUND since his father never got the chance. He can help me perfect it, increase its susceptibility qualities. He can help my wolf run free through the moor._

A shadow falls over him and John gasps, looking up into the bartender’s grizzled face.

“Last call, mate.”

John looks around the empty bar. “Sorry,” he mutters, throwing some notes on the table.

The bartender grunts and picks up the empty glasses. “Have a good night.”

John nods and heads into the night, the journal clutched tightly in his hand and thoughts swirling madly in his brain.

 

Their inn room is empty when John gets back and for once he’s grateful for Sherlock’s habit of neglecting sleep. He doesn’t think he could maintain a conversation right now.

The blinking light of an unread message guides him to where Sherlock left his mobile on his bed. John practically dives in his haste to grab it, hissing as he jostles his shoulder. He has a message from Mina that he briefly skims.

_Hey John, sorry for running out like that – got a call from the station. Hope you’re feeling better._

He opens his search engine and painstakingly types in _Emily McKinnon Dartmoor._

His eyes flick across the screen as he takes in the results.

_Young girl, 9, found mauled to death_

_MISSING: Emily, daughter of Rachel and Jacob McKinnon, last seen at home_

_Young girl runs away from home following domestic dispute_

_Authorities search for animal responsible for fatal mauling of 9 year old_

“Jesus,” John breathes, squeezing his eyes shut.

He gets ready for bed mechanically, trying to order his thoughts. He sends a text to Sherlock warning him of the funeral tomorrow, then searches Rachel and Jacob McKinnon, unsurprised to find the two are divorced. When he finds what he needs, he settles into bed and stares at the ceiling for hours. He doesn’t remember falling asleep.

 

_John dreams of Frankland and the wolf. They are different, but the same._

_Frankland’s face merges and melts with the wolf’s, a continuous, fluid distortion illuminated by the full moon._

_“The simplest solution is usually the correct one,” Sherlock says._

John wakes three hours later with the sun. Sherlock’s bed is untouched.

It’s too early to call, so he gets ready slowly, basking in a long, hot shower to ease the tension in his shoulder. He should probably wear the sling for another day, but he can’t be arsed, so he doesn’t. When he’s dressed, he sits on the bed and watches the clock. At 7:30 he picks up his mobile and dials.

It’s answered on the fourth ring by a tired voice. “Hello?”

John swallows. “Jacob McKinnon?”

“Yes, what is it?”

John has chosen his words carefully. “My name is Dr. John Watson. I’m investigating a recent wolf attack in the area with similarities to your daughter’s case four years ago. Would you be willing to meet with me to discuss the circumstances of the attack?”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line and John holds his breath, worried he’s managed to scare off the grieving father.

“What do you need me for?” McKinnon demands at last, voice rough. “The police closed our case. They have all the notes.”

Taking a deep breath, John hesitates. He’s about to destroy whatever closure this man has. “I think they were wrong.”

 

They meet at the only nearby café open this early on a Sunday. McKinnon is a gaunt man with tired eyes and thinning hair, beaten by stress and grief. As they shake hands, John tries to hide his pity.

“They never found the beast,” McKinnon insists over their coffee, knuckles white as he grips his mug. “They shot some poor old wolf, but I know that’s not what killed my Emmy.”

John nods encouragingly. “How could you tell?”

“My daughter wasn’t mauled, Dr. Watson,” McKinnon hisses, eyes rimmed red. “She was half _eaten_. We got her back in _pieces_.”

“Jesus,” John sighs, closing his eyes and rubbing at his forehead, a brief respite from this father’s anger and agony. They sit in silence for a long moment while McKinnon regulates his breathing. “And she was found on the moor?”

McKinnon nods, staring out the window. “Rachel and I had been arguing,” he admits, bottom lip trembling. “Goddammit, we were always arguing –”

“It’s – it’s not your fault, Jacob,” John tries.

He shakes his head sharply. “I don’t know what possessed her to run into the woods. I’d given her the first Harry Potter book for her birthday and Rachel thinks that she became obsessed with the idea of the enchanted forest, but Emmy was a smart girl…” He trails off, rubbing brusquely at the moisture on his cheek. “I don’t understand how this is meant to help you.”

John hesitates, considering how much he should reveal. “I think the animal that killed Emily is the same one that attacked me.” He pulls down the collar of his jumper to show his collarbone and part of his shoulder, the skin marred and red with healing teeth marks.

“Good Lord,” McKinnon breathes and John quickly rights his clothing. McKinnon’s wide eyes flick up to meet his. “Those are…the scars, they’re the same as… How did you survive? Did you kill it?”

Again, John hesitates, but at last he nods. “It’s dead.”

“Oh, thank God,” McKinnon gasps. He drops his head in his hands and John looks out the window, wondering if he’s just told a lie.

 

The town is small and John thinks better when he’s walking anyway, so he makes his way to the church on foot. By the time he makes it there, he’s late for the service, so he waits outside until the doors open, then joins the small procession following the coffin. He subtly scans the attendees, somber but mostly dry-eyed, as the pastor speaks. He’s not sure what he’s looking for until he finds it.

Once the coffin is lowered and the mourners are slowly dispersing, John approaches a tall, older woman, strong jawed and tanned. “Ellen?”

She twitches in surprise and looks at him with wet eyes. “Yes?”

He gives a sympathetic smile and holds out a hand, which she shakes automatically. “Dr. Watson. I worked with your brother. I am so sorry for your loss.”

“Oh, yes, thank you,” she replies, voice strained. She turns back to face the freshly dug grave. “It’s been such a shock.”

“I can only imagine. Were you close?”

She shakes her head. “Not for years.”

John nods in understanding, clasping his hands in front of him. He watches her expression out of the corner of his eye. “It’s terrible how life can pull people apart. He was a brilliant scientist and a kind, gentle soul. I’ve never believed the rumours.”

She looks at him sharply. “Rumours?”

John’s about to respond when a familiar silhouette catches his eye. Loitering by the cemetery gate is Sherlock, watching John intently.

“What rumours, Dr. Watson?” Ellen snaps, suddenly agitated.

With a mental shake, John refocuses. “Oh, about some secret monster dog project or other,” he says vaguely, hoping his acting skills aren’t as deplorable as Sherlock always claims. “One wolf attack and everyone’s pointing fingers at the mad scientists.” He snorts, as if it’s the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard.

Ellen wraps her arms around herself. She’s so tense she’s shivering and John’s suddenly concerned she may be about to faint. “My brother was not the man everyone thought he was,” she whispers, voice shredded. “I loved my brother very much, but that,” she points at the grave, “that was not him.” With that, she turns and nearly runs out of the cemetery, passing Sherlock without a glance and climbing into a waiting cab.

Once she’s gone, Sherlock shoves his hands in his pockets and makes his way into the cemetery. Turning to face the grave, John ignores his approach, mulling over Ellen’s words. Sherlock comes to stand beside him, his familiar scent overlaying the stink of dirt and decay.

“How did you know that was his sister?” he asks. “Family resemblance?”

John shrugs. Sherlock looks at him.

“I spoke with her before the service. She arrived from Australia at five this morning, is staying at the Spreyton Inn for one night, and she’s already heading home tomorrow. What can we deduce from that?”

“That she’s a very busy woman,” John says, just to be annoying.

“So busy she can’t get a few days’ compassionate leave?” Sherlock says incredulously. He turns to face John fully, but John’s not above a little pettiness and keeps his face stiffly forward. God forbid his eyes be distracting. “No, the only reason she flew all this way was to ensure the body was buried.”

“Seems possible,” John allows.

“What did you find out from talking with her?”

“Not much.”

They fall silent, Sherlock facing John’s side. Sherlock sighs. “John.”

“What?” John asks stiffly.

“Look, I –” he begins, but his voice is soft and condescending, the voice he uses with scared children and grieving widows, and John is suddenly not interested in hearing what he has to say.

Whirling to face him, John makes piercing, furious eye contact and has the satisfaction of watching Sherlock take a half step back. “No, shut up. I don’t know what your problem is, because despite how _distracting_ I am and how _uninterested_ you are, you keep coming back to me. I don’t know what lie you think I’ve told you but never once have I compared you to any of my exes, so I don’t know where this jealousy is coming from. I don’t know why you suddenly decided to attack me, because if you so easily read my mind or my goddamn _eyes_ you should know that I’ve been… How I’ve felt for months. Basically, there’s a lot of shit that I don’t know, so before you turn me down again for something I haven’t even offered, you’d better explain what’s going on in that demented brain of yours.”

Eyes narrowed and lips compressed, Sherlock stares at him. He opens his mouth, closes it. Takes another breath. “You realize sexual attraction is not the same as wanting a relationship, correct?”

“What?” John’s brow furrows. “Of course they’re not the same, why would you think I think that?”

Sherlock purses his lips. His eyes dart away and back.

John waits.

“I have some…eccentricities.”

John’s eyebrows lift into his fringe. “I know. I live with you.”

“I don’t plan on ‘settling down’. Living in the suburbs, two kids and a dog and all that.”

“Okay…”

“You wouldn’t have a girlfriend to escape to.”

John holds up a hand to stop him. “Okay, first of all. I have never used my girlfriends as a way to ‘escape’ from you. I go for a walk when I need to do that.”

Sherlock considers this. “So why –”

“Do I date? Because I like it. I like dating, I like the companionship. I like sex,” he says bluntly.

Sherlock’s eyes widen slightly. “I provide…companionship.”

John rolls his eyes. “Romantic and sexual companionship, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes glaze over and John relaxes, watching him analyze and consider. John finally feels like he’s had his say, like they are more or less on the same page. Everything else can wait.

At last, Sherlock refocuses on him. “I find our current relationship satisfactory,” he says, watching John’s face carefully.

John simply smiles. “I’m not asking for anything else.” He turns and starts heading for their rental car parked on the street. He waits until he hears Sherlock following before looking over his shoulder to wink. “Not yet.”

 

Sherlock still looks a little frazzled by the time they’ve settled in the rental car, so John takes pity on him.

“I learned that Ellen was terrified of her brother,” he says. “You’re probably right about her wanting to make sure he was dead and buried.” He considers if he should mention what else she said, but feels oddly reluctant until he can discern her meaning himself. How can John possibly voice his suspicions, or mention the journal? Sherlock would find it ludicrous.

“Of course I’m right,” Sherlock says, with a forced haughtiness that John recognizes as his way of recovering his mental balance. “You’re hiding something.”

John thinks quickly, then changes tracks. “I didn’t find her by the family resemblance.”

Sherlock glances at him. “No?”

“I found her by her scent.”

The following silence is full of doubt. “The synesthesia?” Sherlock asks dubiously.

Shrugging, John looks out the passenger window. _She smelled like Frankland’s sister,_ he doesn’t say. “She smelled…bitter, metallic. Afraid. And she could barely keep her eyes off the grave, as if she half expected Frankland to come back to life and climb out.”

Sherlock hums. “I noticed that as well.”

They take an unexpected turn and John takes stock of their surroundings. “This isn’t the way back to the inn.”

“We’re not going to the inn. We’re going to Henry’s house.”

“And why are we going there?”

“His father has some explaining to do.”

 

Henry’s house is as immense as John remembers it. The sight of it, empty and neglected, seems like a waste.

“The basement seems like a safe bet, don’t you think?” Sherlock says, swinging the basement door open with a flourish.

“Hopefully we don’t find another torture chamber,” John mutters, following him down the stairs.

The basement, it turns out, has been developed into a lounge and entertainment area, including a bar, pool table, home theatre and jacuzzi. Even Sherlock looks a bit dazzled.

“Attic?” John offers.

They find the trap door to the attic in the hallway ceiling on the second floor. John saves his pride and doesn’t even try to reach the handle, grumbling at Sherlock’s tall-person smirk.

The attic is stuffed with boxes and bags, everything covered in a fine layer of dust that sets John to sneezing. After the fifth consecutive sneeze, he manages to get control of himself with a groan, his shoulder aching.

“Bless you?” Sherlock offers, then laughs when John sneezes once more for good measure. “Taking off the sling was a bit premature, don’t you think?”

“I’m fine,” John grumbles with a sniff, and they set to searching.

They find old family photos, broken sports equipment, abused suitcases, well-used children’s toys, a trunk full of outdated clothes, boxes of shoes, an abandoned accordion, a box of Christmas decorations…

“Doesn’t Henry live alone?” John complains, digging through the fifth cardboard box. “Why does he have all this junk?”

“Inheritance?” Sherlock offers, combing through a box of old books. “Secret hoarder? Laziness?”

“Ugh!” John recoils from whatever furry thing he just touched.

“What?”

“Who the hell taxidermies their pet?” he exclaims, tilting the box so Sherlock can see the stuffed little dog, one of those yappy ones.

Sherlock snorts a laugh.

“I found a box of keys,” John calls ten minutes later.

“And I found a locked chest,” Sherlock responds, looking at him from the other side of the attic.

With a groan John gets to his feet, brushing the grime from his knees. “That sounds promising.”

There are only ten keys in the box, so they decide to try them before resorting to lock picking. The lock gives way on the third key. They look at each other in anticipation, then together they lift the lid and peer inside.

“Huh.”

“Disappointing,” Sherlock agrees.

Reaching into the chest, John pulls out the frilly, vintage dress on top. “I bet this is worth a lot now.”

“There’s nothing here!” Sherlock exclaims, standing in a rush.

Dropping the dress, John closes the lid and stands. “What were you expecting to find?”

“Something, anything!” Sherlock runs a hand roughly through his curls in frustration, leaving dust like streaks of grey. “Something to give this case some meaning, some sense.”

Frowning, John looks out the attic window onto the grounds. Should he mention the journal?

“There are too many unknowns, not enough connections. How was Frankland shot? What happened to the hound that attacked you? Why were my bullets ineffective?”

“Know where we haven’t looked?” John interrupts, nodding toward the shed in the backyard.

 

None of the keys work on the shed, but Sherlock has the lock picked in five minutes. At first it looks like another dead end, just an ordinary storage space for gardening tools and a lawn mower.

Then: “Why is there carpet in a shed?” John wonders, and Sherlock dives to start pulling at the corners.

They have to chuck out most of the rakes and buckets and tools, but at last they manage to tear away the carpet, revealing a wooden floor with a trap door.

“Do we have a secret passageway in our flat?” John asks, slightly hysterical. “Because everyone else seems to have one.”

There’s a small groove in the wood that Sherlock sticks his fingers in to flip up a handle. Straddling the door, he grabs the handle with both hands and pulls, the door creaking open like the maw of some hungry beast. A set of cement stairs descends into darkness, the scent of earthy dampness wafting out into the shed.

They meet each other’s gaze over the black pit. “You wanna go first?” John offers.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and turns on the torch on his mobile. “Come on, then,” he says, leading the way.

John shines his torch at the steps, the air getting colder the deeper they go. “Do you think Henry knew about this?”

“Doubt it,” Sherlock says, the light of his torch catching on cobwebs and dust above their heads. “I reckon this is an inheritance he didn’t find in his father’s will.”

The stairs lead them to a cement floor and a light switch that doesn’t work. They shine their torches to take in the cramped room, with a small cot in one corner and storage cupboards taking up the rest of the space.

John opens the closest cupboard and whistles lowly. “That,” he says, “is a lot of guns.”

“And yet Henry has no passion for hunting,” Sherlock murmurs over his shoulder, taking in the row of secured rifles. He opens a drawer to find packages of ammunition, glinting silver in the torchlight.

“Christ,” John breathes. “This shit would take down an elephant.”

Another cupboard stores a collection of hunting knives, another of various bear traps, but it is the last cupboard that causes John to recoil. Eyes watering, John covers his nose and steps back as Sherlock sifts through dozens of vials of clear liquid and baggies of dried flowers.

Sherlock takes in John’s expression with a frown. “What do you smell?”

John shakes his head. “It just burns my nose.”

“Curious,” Sherlock murmurs, stuffing samples into his pockets. “I need to test these in the lab.”

Turning away, John notices a calendar on the wall. No – not a regular calendar, a lunar calendar. Flipping through it, he frowns. He takes out the journal from his pocket, comparing the dates on the entries to the calendar. The years are different, but the pattern is the same. John didn’t take much note of the dates before, but now he’s realizing that Frankland tended to write in two-day spurts: the days of and after the full moon.

The realization burns through him like lightning, illuminating the unavoidable truth. “Sherlock,” he breathes. “There’s something you need to…”

Turning, he finds himself alone in the room.

“Bastard,” John grumbles, knowing he’s just been abandoned for the lab. At least he has his mobile this time. Tucking away the journal, he flicks through his mobile as he climbs the stairs, looking for the number of the local cab company. When he emerges into the shed, he finds his exit blocked by an imposing figure.

“Hello, John,” says Mycroft Holmes.


	8. Chapter 8

Hunched over a microscope in the tiny police station lab, Sherlock grits his teeth as he tries to make sense of it all. Sitting up, he closes his eyes, running through his findings once again.

Frankland’s private lab proved to be intriguing, but not illuminating. The vials John found contained a horse tranquilizer, useful for a man with a habit of chaining up monsters in his basement. If that was even true. Maybe he used it as a poison on someone, instead. The hair Sherlock collected was too old to yield much useful data, though the strands were notable in their unusual thickness and silver colour. After John stormed off, Sherlock also discovered and hacked into Frankland’s laptop, which exclusively contained notes regarding his personal experiments for the H.O.U.N.D. project. Thanks to a wealth of chemistry data, Sherlock now knows that Frankland was trying to adjust the drug’s effects to increase the victim’s suggestibility and decrease the incited aggression. What was he trying to persuade people of? With the confusion, disorientation and terror brought on by the drug, a victim could be convinced to do nearly anything, then have their memories and perceptions of their actions altered.

Could this have been an elaborate suicide plan of Frankland’s? Use the drug to convince Henry to shoot him?

From Henry’s place, the samples Sherlock tested were nothing more than _Aconitum napellus_ flowers and a concentrated tincture of the plant’s naturally occurring poison. A nasty flower to be handled carefully, but not with any particularly offensive smell that would warrant John’s reaction, nor especially useful for hunting. Which meant the poison was meant for something or someone else.

He groans, pushing away from the table and standing to pace. With every new piece of data there seem to be more possibilities, more unattached strings than less.

“Mr. Holmes?”

Sherlock glances at the open doorway where an officer is loitering. “Yes, what?”

“I’ve been told to inform you that we’ll be closing the Frankland case. Your services are no longer needed.”

The statement is so unexpected, so contrary to what he was thinking, that Sherlock freezes for a second. “How can you close the case? You don’t even know what happened that night.”

The officer crosses his arms. “We know Mr. Knight shot Dr. Frankland. Knight has confessed, the scene has been processed, evidence collected. What else is there to know?”

“What happened to John then?”

He shrugs. “There are many wild animals out on the moor. That’s a matter for Forestry, not Homicide.”

Sherlock gapes at him in disgusted disbelief. He wants to shout at the officer, rail against the idiocy of the police, and yet the decision to close the case is logical. Henry has confessed to the murder. How the murder happened is immaterial when faced with the plethora of evidence backing up Henry’s confession. Then why does this conclusion feel so completely wrong?

 _Because that’s not what I saw_ , Sherlock thinks. That’s not what he sees every time he sleeps long enough to dream. The inside of his eyelids has become a screen for the horror film of Frankland’s metamorphosis and John’s screams.

“You’ll pass that on to Dr. Watson, won’t you?” the officer continues.

With a start, Sherlock looks around the lab and realizes John’s not here. _Damn_. Sherlock left him at Henry’s.

Well it’s hardly his fault if John can’t keep up. He knows how Sherlock’s brain works. Plus, now that John’s expressed interest in not just a sexual relationship, but a romantic one as well, Sherlock has to admit to desiring some space to think. Sherlock’s biggest misgiving regarding a change in relationship status is that John will tire of Sherlock’s…occasional social shortcomings. And Sherlock is not willing to be the guinea pig in John’s experimentation with a homosexual relationship. However, John also made the valid point that his previous relationships have all fallen apart due to John’s inability to give his girlfriend his full attention. Too much of it belongs to Sherlock.

The officer is still waiting by the door, watching Sherlock with a raised eyebrow.

For God’s sake, he’s already distracted and he hasn’t even had sex with John yet.

“I’ll let him know,” Sherlock agrees. Not that it will stop their own investigation.

The officer snorts and then jerks at the call of his name.

“Bukhari!”

The officer leaves the lab, Sherlock close behind.

“There’s been a report of smoke at twelve Farleigh,” says another officer. “Get a squad car out there.”

“That’s Frankland’s house,” Sherlock says, walking quickly behind Bukhari, who is immediately on the move.

Bukhari grunts, looking at Sherlock over his shoulder. “Go home, Holmes. We can handle this.”

“I don’t think so. This case isn’t closed yet.”

 

There is, predictably, a black Jaguar idling in front of Henry’s house.

“Does Sherlock know you’re here?” John asks as they get in, having long since learnt the futility of resisting a ride from Mycroft Holmes.

“No,” says Mycroft. “And let’s keep it that way. I’m here for you, John.”

“Me?” John repeats, eyebrows raised. “You mean I’m not just your pawn to get to Sherlock this time?”

The unamused look Mycroft throws him is enough to make John smirk despite his sudden apprehensions. He looks at the driver and spots a familiar pair of eyes looking at him through the rear-view mirror. “ _Mina_?”

“Hey, John,” she says, pulling the car out of Henry’s driveway.

“You work for _Mycroft_?”

“Yup. Sorry for all the cloak and dagger.”

John turns on Mycroft. “Have you been spying on me?” he demands, a spike of anger shooting through him. The nerve of nosy bloody Holmeses.

Mycroft simply raises an eyebrow. “Of course.”

Gritting his teeth, John looks out the window. “Where are we going?”

“The most secure location in the area. My office in Baskerville.”

“You have a private office in a military research base. Of course you do.”

They drive the rest of the way in silence. Both Mycroft and Mina appear calm, but John can smell the bitter tinge of stress in the car, which makes John anxious in turn. By the time they’ve passed the Baskerville security gate and have parked, John is nearly vibrating in apprehension.

The guard nods to the three of them as they walk to the building and with a simple swipe of Mycroft’s identification card, they’re inside.

“That was a lot easier than last time,” John mutters, half expecting Major Barrymore to jump out at them from around the corner.

Mycroft snorts delicately. “I actually made the precaution of calling ahead.”

Mycroft’s office is deep underground, at the end of a maze of corridors on the third sub-basement level. With a swipe of his card, the office door unlocks and Mycroft leads the way in, lights turning on automatically. Mina closes the door behind them and there is an instant, conspicuous lack of sound. It is only in the sudden near-silence that John realizes how much he was tuning out before. All he can hear now is the gentle sounds of their breathing, the quiet rush of the climate-controlled air, and the electric hum of the lights.

The office is sparse, with an immaculately clean desk, a computer, a phone and several chairs. The room smells stale and rarely used. Mycroft moves to the seat behind the desk, waving John towards a chair as he goes. Mina sits at the side of the desk, halfway between Mycroft and John.

“Alright, what’s this about?” John demands, more than a little fed up with all the fanfare. “We couldn’t have had this discussion in a coffee shop?”

Intertwining his fingers, Mycroft leans across the desk, looking at John with such seriousness that it captures John’s attention entirely. “John. Based on the notebook you are carrying in your coat pocket, you know already that Frankland was not a typical man.”

John blinks but does not reach for his pocket.

“He was infected with a virus, spread through saliva in a manner similar to rabies. This virus caused a mutation in his genome that forged a link between his body and the moon.”

“That’s impossible,” says the doctor in John. The rest of him feels a numbing dread creeping over him, like a slow stream of oil filling up his insides. He’s not ready for this.

“That night on the moor, before Henry shot and killed Frankland, you were attacked and bitten,” Mycroft continues, nodding at John’s left shoulder. “The virus was introduced into your blood stream. Your body has already begun to change. Your sense of smell has increased ten-fold, your hearing has improved. You have become hypersensitive to silver and monkshood.”

“What’s your point?” John snaps, heart racing.   

“What Dr. Bob Frankland was, you are becoming.”

John is silent. If he’s honest with himself, he already knows what Mycroft is about to say.

“A werewolf.”

John closes his eyes. Exhales.

In a way, it’s a relief to hear it out loud, this word that’s been in his head since he first read Frankland’s journal. The word that’s been in the back of his mind ever since he watched Frankland shapeshift into an impossible, monstrous creature.

“A werewolf,” John breathes.

To hear Mycroft say it makes it so much easier to believe. Not impossible, not insane, but the inevitable truth. The only solution that makes all the pieces fit neatly. Everything makes so much sense.

“I tested you twice,” says Mina, speaking for the first time since entering the room.

John opens his eyes and looks at her.

“The monkshood in my car. Werewolves are even more sensitive to the poison than humans are. Your reaction was intense – you could barely breathe through the scent of the flower. The second time was at the pub.”

“The silver ring,” John realizes. “That was intentional.”

She nods, her usually smiling mouth downturned. “You failed both tests, John.”

“So what happens next, then?” John demands, shying away from the pity in her eyes. “Is there a cure?”

“There is currently no effective cure,” Mycroft says. “The next full moon is in six nights. The first transformation is always the most difficult, so you will be spending the day and night of the full moon in this building, in a holding cell so that you can be monitored.”

 _Six nights._ John decides to skip over that, for the sake of maintaining his composure. Instead, he raises an eyebrow and asks, “Monitored?”

Mycroft inclines his head. “And contained. For everyone’s safety.”

It seems ludicrous, this idea that he will be so dangerous he’ll need to be locked up. He finds he is mentally distancing himself, as if John the Werewolf is an entirely different person. None of it feels real. “Frankland wrote that he had no control over his…w-wolf,” John stutters. “He could hardly remember what he had done during the full moon.”

“This is common for most werewolves,” Mina says. “The bloodthirst and animalistic rage of the wolf is too much for the human mind to comprehend.”

John thinks he should feel more strongly about that, but all he feels is numb. “How will I explain this to Sherlock?” he wonders.

“You won’t,” Mycroft says sharply. “You are no longer human and you are dangerous. You must distance yourself from my brother or risk hurting him.”

A flare of anger ignites in John’s belly. “I feel fine – ”

“John, you may be lauded for having the patience to live with Sherlock, but we both know you have a temper. As the full moon gets closer, you will become increasingly agitated. You will feel restless, irritable, territorial, angry. Every twenty-nine days for the rest of your life you will transform into a mindless, venomous beast that will not hesitate to destroy everything in its vicinity. I will not allow Sherlock to be in that vicinity.”

They glare at each other, Mycroft immovable and John stone-faced to hide the heart-pounding terror in his chest.

“I strongly recommend you find a way to extricate yourself from his life,” Mycroft continues. “Or I will do so for you.”

“It’s for the best, John,” Mina cuts in quietly. “Why do you think Frankland wasn’t married? Why do you think his sister ran away to Australia?”

John wants to say that Sherlock wouldn’t react the same way, that Sherlock is made of stronger stuff than that. But then he remembers the way Sherlock broke down the first time he saw the hound on the moor and he’s not so sure. This is far outside the comforting realm of science and hard facts.

Mycroft sees him hesitate and nods, as if his point has just been proven. “Mina will take you back to the inn. Think it through, John. Carefully.”

 

By the time Sherlock and the officers arrive at Frankland’s house, the heat of the fire is intense. Flames are licking at the roof and flickering through the windows, and firefighters are quickly uncoiling their water hoses.

“Check the perimeter!” Bukhari shouts over the roaring of the inferno, pointing his partner towards the right side of the house. “Stay put, Holmes!” he orders and runs in the opposite direction.

Sherlock counts to ten and then begins his own search, jogging through the trees and watching for any suspicious figures. If the fire was deliberate, the arsonist is likely still in the area. He does two laps of the house but does not find anyone. He’s sweating despite the cool evening air, the heat of the fire unrelenting.

He waits by the rental car, eyes scanning the ground as the officers talks to one of the firefighters. The men’s heavy boots have trampled most of the ground, but near the front step, too close for anyone to get to the fire, is a slim, partial footprint. A size nine ladies’ shoe.

“What did he say?” Sherlock asks as the officers approach, nodding at the firefighter.

“It’s too early to determine the cause of the fire,” Bukhari says. “But they think it started in the basement.”

Sherlock nods and gets into his car without another word. Bob Frankland’s funeral was yesterday. There is no way this fire is a coincidence. Who would want all traces of Frankland’s life destroyed? Sherlock can only think of one person. He starts the car and backs out of the driveway onto the road, tyres squealing. Hopefully he isn’t too late.

 

The drive back to the inn is silent. John’s mind seems to be whirring without any actual thoughts being formed. He watches the dark streets out his window, dread in the pit of his stomach and his brain swimming in disbelief. He blinks in surprise when Mina pulls to a stop.

“Try to get some sleep,” she says gently. “The next few days are going to be rough.”

John doesn’t reply, just exits the car. He trudges up the stairs to his and Sherlock’s room without noticing his surroundings and finds his way to his bed. He can smell Sherlock in the room, but he’s not here.

He looks at the clock and realizes twenty minutes have passed. He feels like he did after his discharge from the military, when time seemed to jump and stall randomly. His mobile is in his pocket and he pulls it out, thumbing through his contacts until he finds the one he’s searching for. He sends a text. He attempts some light physio exercises for his shoulder, breathing heavily through the burn. He doesn’t stop until the pain is the only thing in his head.


	9. Chapter 9

When Sherlock runs into the Spreyton Inn ten minutes later, it is hardly any effort to act like a frazzled friend of Ellen Frankland.

“Sir, we can’t give out our clients’ information,” insists the concierge in response to Sherlock’s demand for her room number.

Letting his eyes widen in dismay, Sherlock clutches the navy scarf to his chest. It’s his, but the colour is neutral enough to pass for a woman’s. “Could you call her down at least? It was her brother’s funeral yesterday and she forgot her scarf and I just really wanted to give it to her in person before she leaves…” He’s nearly wailing by the end. It’s over the top, but it gets the reaction he wants, as the uncomfortable concierge grimaces and looks around in embarrassment.

“Sir. Calm down, sir.” He types quickly on his computer and frowns. “I’m afraid you just missed her. She checked out ten minutes ago.”

Sherlock swears and pivots, ignoring the surprised look the concierge gives him. He jumps into the car and peels out of the loading zone. The airport is twenty-five minutes away. If he speeds he can make it in eighteen.

When he pulls into the airport drop off zone seventeen minutes later, he’s lucky not to have been pulled over.

“Police,” he yells at the security guard as he jumps out of the car, flashing the badge he nicked from Bukhari. He flat out sprints into the airport and to the departure gate, scanning and dismissing faces at break neck speed. He spots her just as she’s about to enter the queue for airport security. “Ellen Frankland!”

Her head snaps up in surprise and she freezes when she sees him. As Sherlock strides towards her she looks around in panic, but realizes there is no avoiding him if she doesn’t want to make a scene. Frowning, red-eyed, she steps out of the line to meet him. She smells faintly of smoke.

“Your late brother’s house has just gone up in flames,” he says in greeting, watching her face for signs of shock. There are none. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“It must be an unfortunate accident,” she says flatly. “No one was hurt, I hope?”

“Was the house insured?” Sherlock asks instead of answering her.

“I don’t know and I don’t care. I don’t want anything to do with that property.”

“And if they discover signs of arson?”

Her lips pinch. “They won’t. Last time I was in that house Bob kept all sorts of papers and chemicals in the basement. I’m not surprised the place burned down.”

“Chemicals don’t tend to spontaneously combust.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know,” she says tightly. “I’m not a scientist. It could have been a faulty wire.”

Sherlock stares at her and she meets his gaze steadily. He’ll get nothing from her. “Let me ask you one question then. Why were you so afraid of your brother?”

Her eyes dart away and her bottom lip trembles.

“I know you spoke to Dr. Watson.”

“I noticed you waiting by the cemetery for Dr. Watson after the funeral. The police told me he was mauled the night my brother was killed.” She looks at him then. “I’m not an idiot, Mr. Holmes. Neither of you worked with Bob. If you care for your life, you must leave Dr. Watson and never look back.”

Sherlock keeps his face carefully blank, save for an impatient tightening of his lips. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Her eyes are haunted. “I was afraid of my brother for the same reason that you should be afraid of your friend.” She opens her purse and pulls out a pen and paper. “If you stay with him, in a week you won’t need this. But if you choose to leave him, ask me your question again.” She hands him the paper upon which her email has been quickly scribbled. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to be late for my flight.”

He watches her join the queue, the paper crumpled in his fist. More questions than answers, yet again. There is only one thing that Sherlock is now certain of – this case is no longer about Henry, who was the hapless victim from the very start. It’s about Frankland.

By the time he reaches the inn, it is nearing midnight. He finds John in bed, staring at the ceiling with the lights still on. He doesn’t look at Sherlock when he enters the room. Sherlock sighs internally. He supposes he ought to apologize.

He slowly takes off his coat and shoes. “You made it back, then. From Henry’s.”

John shuffles to sit up against the headboard. “You’re stating the obvious.”

Sherlock hesitates by the foot of John’s bed, unsure how to respond. John doesn’t look angry, only tired. And possibly a little…sad? Sherlock suddenly has the strangest urge to get closer, to touch him.

“You only do that when you’re apologizing.”

“Yes, well…”

“It’s fine.” John smiles. “Not the first time you’ve left me behind and won’t be the last.”

How is it that Sherlock now feels more guilty after John has forgiven him than before? He thinks of John’s ‘not yet’. And the wink. John _winked_ at him. If ‘not yet’ then what is John waiting for? For Sherlock to become more considerate? To stop forgetting him at crime scenes? To force his brain to slow down and remember all the trivial rules of polite social interaction?

John’s nostrils flare. “Why do you smell like smoke?”

Sherlock sniffs at his shirt sleeve. “There was a fire at Frankland’s house.”

John sits up straighter. “A fire? Intentional?”

“Officially, not yet determined.”

“And unofficially?”

Sherlock smirks; John knows his methods. “I have reason to believe that Ellen Frankland wished to erase all trace of her brother.”

“By burning down his house?” John asks sceptically. “Insurance money?”

“Possible. Or she was hiding something.”

John is silent.

Tilting his head, Sherlock’s focus folds into itself, the room around him no longer registering. “She knows something about her brother. Something she doesn’t want anyone else to know. Or something she doesn’t want coming back to her.” What could be worse than murder and an illegally produced poison fog? Fraud? Child pornography? Pedophilia?

“Are you going to tell the police?”

Sherlock snaps back to reality. “It depends what the authorities find once the fire is put out.”

John nods, an odd expression on his face. Sherlock realizes he is still loitering by John’s bed and goes to his own instead, grabbing his pyjamas. He normally wouldn’t think twice about changing in front of John, but now he feels self-conscious. They seem to be standing on a cliff, their toes hanging over the edge, and the smallest nudge will send them hurtling into the void. He suddenly feels _l’appel du vide_ , that terrifying and exhilarating urge to jump. What if he stripped naked right now, here, just beside John’s bed? What if he forwent his pyjamas and climbed into bed nude, his favourite way to sleep anyway? What if he climbed into _John’s_ bed?

He retreats to the loo.

 

John doesn’t sleep much that night, listening to Sherlock’s breathing and wondering what the hell he is going to do. He manages to fall into a doze around four only for Sherlock to wake him up a few hours later. He’s exhausted and irritable, but Sherlock actually allows him to eat breakfast before they head to the station, snagging a piece of toast and bacon off John’s plate for himself. It’s a common occurrence, something Sherlock does when they’re on a case and he doesn’t want a whole meal to himself, but today it rubs the wrong way. That’s _John’s_ food and Sherlock didn’t even ask.

They get to the station by mid morning and are greeted by Mina. “Good morning, gents,” she says and John panics. _Act natural_ , he thinks, nodding at her. He’s going to do or not do something that will tip Sherlock off and John will have to come up with an excuse that doesn’t sound like a lie and Mina is giving him a weird look and –

Sherlock walks past her. Exhaling, John quickly follows, not meeting Mina’s eyes.

“Bukhari,” Sherlock says, coming up to an officer’s desk. “What did they find last night?”

“Mr. Holmes,” Bukhari replies, standing so Sherlock doesn’t tower over him. He gives the two of them a mildly exasperated look. “Nothing suspicious. Fire originated from a heater in the basement. Lots of papers and chemicals down there, no surprise the place went up as quickly as it did.”

Sherlock gives John an ‘I told you so’ look. “The heater malfunctioned?” he assumes airily.

“Apparently,” Bukhari agrees, missing the mocking lilt to Sherlock’s voice. He crosses his arms. “And before you ask, no, you can’t see the report. The case is still closed.”

“Closed?” John repeats.

Bukhari glances at him then frowns at Sherlock. “Yes, we’re closing the Frankland case, as I told him yesterday to pass on to you.”

John opens his mouth then closes it again, teeth grinding. _But Henry’s innocent_ , he wants to say. _He didn’t shoot Frankland. He shot the monster Frankland turned into._

“Don’t worry, John,” Sherlock says, dismissing Bukhari entirely and sweeping away towards the exit. John hurries to keep up. “Our own investigation is still in progress.”

John’s mobile vibrates in his pocket. “Where to next?” he asks, unlocking his screen. It’s a response to the text he sent last night.

“Baskerville.”

John looks up from his mobile in surprise and bumps into a woman carrying an armful of files. It’s barely a knock of the shoulders, but it makes the tender bite wound ache and a flush of anger rushes through him. The urge to recoil and shove her away are equally strong. He remembers how he knocked Sherlock into the wall at the hospital with one arm. His muscles quiver with tension and John freezes where he is, just in front of the doorway, shocked by his own reaction. Sherlock continues and opens the door for him, only then realizing John isn’t directly behind.

“Alright?” he asks, eyebrow raised.

John breathes deeply, imagining the anger as smoke poisoning his lungs, releasing it on his exhale. He can see Mina watching him out of the corner of his eye. He starts walking again. “I can’t, actually.”

“What?” Sherlock demands, coming to a stop to look at him by the car.

“I can’t come to Baskerville with you. I have a meeting with Louise Mortimer.”

Sherlock stares at him incredulously. “Since when?”

Glancing at his mobile, John says, “Since one minute ago.” He looks up into Sherlock’s annoyed face. “I want to ask her about Henry.”

“So call her and ask,” Sherlock gripes.

“It’s not a really a conversation to have over the phone, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s bottom lip slips into the hint of a pout, and while it should make him look like a sulky teenager, John can’t help but find it endearing. The sun is shining in Sherlock’s face, bringing out auburn highlights in his curls and turning his sea glass eyes nearly transparent. He’s beautiful and John is going to lose him.

With a scowl, Sherlock gets into the car. John opens the passenger door and hesitates.

“Are you going to drive me or should I get a cab?” he asks.

“Just get in.”

John does. “We’re meeting at that café near the inn, the one with the big coffee bean sign.”

Sherlock grunts in acknowledgement. They lapse into silence that lasts about ten seconds. “Is this a date?” Sherlock asks.

John laughs before realizing Sherlock is serious. “What, actually?” Sherlock’s gaze is stubbornly fixed on the road. John clears his throat, lips twitching. “No, it’s not a date.”

“It’s not that ridiculous a question,” Sherlock mutters. “You said ‘not yet’. What you plan on doing before the ‘yet’ arrives I’ve no idea.”

John squints at the side of his face. It is times like these that John wishes he had a Sherlock-dictionary. “It’s not a date, Sherlock.”

“Fine.”

When Sherlock pulls up to the café, John turns to him. “Good luck getting into Baskerville this time.”

“Don’t need it,” he says, pulling his stolen police badge out of his pocket and flashing it at John.

“Yeah, good luck,” John repeats and gets out. “Don’t get arrested.”

As he’s walking into the shop, he wonders if he should warn Mycroft that Sherlock is on his way, but figures he already knows somehow. Louise is inside, waiting for him at a table. She smiles when she sees him, but it’s strained. John knows how she feels.

She stands as he approaches. “John,” she says warmly.

“Hi, Louise, thanks for meeting me.” He accepts her brief handshake, smelling her shampoo, her deodorant, her moisturizer and the unique scent that is just her. “How have you been?” The last time he saw her she was walking out of their sham of a date, embarrassed and angry – and rightly so. The last time he heard her she was sobbing over the phone after Henry shot at her.

She takes her seat and John follows suit. “Alright,” she says. “It’s been a rough few weeks. Not as rough as yours though. How are you healing up?”

John looks at his left shoulder, shrugging it slightly, ignoring the twinge of pain. “Getting there. Still some soreness, lots of stiffness.”

She nods sympathetically. They order tea when the server comes by their table and then John leans towards her over the table.

“I know you can’t talk about your patients,” he begins, “but we’re not doing an investigation any more, not really. I’m asking as a friend: how is Henry?”

She looks down at her hands, thinking through her response. “He’s not well, John, of course he’s not.”

John nods, looking away, scanning the café idly.

“I don’t know what happened that night, John. All I know is that Henry thought he was protecting you. Whether he was protecting you from some blood-thirsty wolf, or from Bob Frankland is unclear. But his intensions were good.”

“I know that,” John sighs. He wonders if it would have been better for everyone if Henry hadn’t shot the werewolf, had just let it kill John. Henry, Sherlock and Greg should have just run. But John wasn’t the werewolf’s first victim – Frankland needed to be stopped. “He should plead insanity.”

“You’re not his therapist.”

“I don’t think Henry is insane. I just think he should plead not legally responsible for his actions due to the influence of the drug.”

“He refuses to hire a lawyer,” she complains.

“He feels guilty,” John surmises and she nods.

She leans closer to him, voice lowered. “What did you see that night?”

“I don’t remember much,” he says truthfully. “But if it weren’t for Henry I’d be dead.”

“He’s been asking about you. That’s why I agreed to meet you.”

He looks up in surprise. Their server returns then with their tea, placing the cups down and leaving silently. “You mean you didn’t come for my good looks and charm?” he teases, picking up his tea and blowing at the steam. The scent envelops him like a warm blanket, clearing his sinuses of the muddled aromas of the café.

She smiles into her own cup. “You didn’t exactly give me the best impression last time we did this.” She lowers her cup, smile fading as she studies him. “And there’s something…different about you now.”

He nearly flinches, hiding it behind a scorching sip. “Different?”

She nods, watching him intently. “You’re tense, guarded. You were never innocent but…I think you’ve lost some of your lightheartedness.” She wrinkles her nose. “Sorry, I shouldn’t be psychoanalyzing you.”

“No,” he agrees, too sharply, and she looks away, frowning. If she’s noticed so much, then certainly Sherlock has as well. He tries to make his expression blank, blocking her out. “It’s fine, though.”

She looks back at him, frown deepening as her eyes flick over his face. “That’s a terrible coping strategy, you know. It’s impossible to work through your emotions if you refuse to acknowledge them.”

He nearly snaps at her to mind her own fucking business, but then he realizes: “That’s from Star Trek.”

She relaxes with a laugh. “Maybe. But it’s true.”

They drink in silence for a bit. When he feels more at ease, he broaches the topic he intended this meeting to be about. “Would I be able to see Henry?”

She blinks in surprise, but doesn’t immediately refuse, so John keeps pushing.

“I know he doesn’t have any family to visit him. He must be lonely. I just want to talk with him, thank him for saving my life.”

“Well…”

“Maybe I can convince him to hire a lawyer.”

She sighs. “Let me make a phone call.” She stands and leaves the café, bringing her mobile to her ear.

John sips his tea and listens to her make arrangements, her voice muffled through the café wall but audible if he focuses. God, he really is a freak.

When she comes back inside, she sits down and finishes her tea. “I’m doing this for Henry, not you.”

“I know.”

“If you upset him you’re out.”

“Deal.” John nods with a smile. “You’re good for him, Dr. Mortimer.”

“Let’s hope you are, too, Dr. Watson.”


	10. Chapter 10

When John walks into the interview room, he nearly stumbles upon catching sight of the inmate. Henry is pale and gaunt, his eyes sunken and his fingers fiddling nervously with his handcuffs. His ears seem to stick out even more than usual, which John accredits to sudden and recent weight loss. The room reeks of anxiety. He understands now Louise’s concern for her patient.

When Henry sees him, his face crumples immediately. “Oh, god, John.”

John is shocked into stillness for a moment, then he hurriedly sits across from Henry, grasping his cuffed hands. “Henry. It’s alright. Come on, Henry.” He makes his voice as soothing as he can, comforting the sobbing man like he would distraught soldiers in his regiment. “It’s alright. I’m so sorry for what’s happened to you, Henry.”

“I didn’t mean to shoot him, John, I didn’t.”

“I know, Henry.”

“I didn’t even know what I was doing,” he says thickly, tears on his cheeks. “The fog was in my head and, god, John, that thing was going to tear you apart.”

“Henry. Henry, listen to me.” John squeezes the clammy, trembling hands. “You saved my life. Do you understand me? If you hadn’t shot, I’d be dead.”

“How though? I-I don’t – how?”

They’re being monitored, John knows, so he’s limited in what he can say. Even if he could explain, Henry would never believe him. “I don’t know, Henry,” he lies. “But Bob Frankland was a criminal. He was a killer and a literal mad scientist. It was the fog – his own creation – that killed him, not you.”

Henry bows his head, shuddering. God, John should have come to see him sooner. He and Sherlock have failed Henry Knight.

“I’m sorry, Henry,” he says again.

Henry sniffles quietly for a few minutes and John passes him a tissue, waiting for him to calm down. When at last he looks up again, his eyes are red but his face is dry and his shoulders no longer shake. “I’m just glad you’re alive,” he rasps. “I think Sherlock would have murdered me if my case had gotten you killed.”

John lets his lips quirk. “Nah, Greg would have stopped him.”

“It destroyed him, seeing you hurt,” Henry says, eyes somber. “I’m sorry for that. Tell him I’m sorry, too, would you?”

It takes John a second to reply, his tongue suddenly thick in his mouth. “Henry, you have nothing to apologize for. And I swear, when this case goes to court, we will both be there to support you.”

“I shot a man, John. I can’t tell reality from a hallucination. I’m a danger to society.”

“You’re not, Henry. It was the fog.”

“I can barely sleep from the nightmares. And the pills just make me sick.” The pitch of his voice rises with strain. “I don’t know how much longer I can do this.”

“I have nightmares, too,” John says quietly. “And though he’d never admit to it, so does Sherlock. It will get better, Henry. It _will_ get better. I promise.”

Henry sniffles again, squeezing the tissue in his fist, unconvinced.

“When this is over, you’ll have the entire rest of your life ahead of you, free from unanswered questions about your father’s death. Move somewhere new, start fresh. Memories fade.”

“You’re very confident,” Henry says dubiously.

John inclines his head. “I’ve been through this kind of thing before. Just keep eating and sleeping and eventually it will stop feeling like such a chore.”

Henry nods, swallowing thickly. His eyes flicker from his cuffed wrists to John’s face. “You look well. The hound really did attack you, didn’t it? I didn’t hallucinate that, as well?”

Silently, John tugs down the collar of his jumper, revealing the scarlet scars left by monstrous teeth. Henry’s eyes widen, unable to look away. “It really happened,” John reassures him. “If it hadn’t been for you, my neck would have been next.”

“God, that’s not from a normal dog.”

John shakes his head in agreement and rights his jumper. “Do you remember what colour the hound was that attacked me?”

“Uh, grey. A bit silver, I think. Why?”

“We all saw the same thing despite the fog affecting us. You, me, Sherlock and Greg.”

Henry’s brow furrows. “How can that be? Didn’t Sherlock say the drug made us hallucinate?”

“Exactly. Its purpose was to drive you mad with anger and fear. But what if our brains were already at the limit of terror? I think what we saw so horrifying that the drug didn’t need to alter our perception. The grey hound was actually there.”

John shouldn’t be pushing this, he knows, but he can’t allow Henry to go on thinking he hallucinated the whole thing, his actions the result of a sick mind. What they saw that night really did happen and Henry should be lauded as a hero, not castigating himself out of misplaced guilt.

“Something mutated from Baskerville?” Henry wonders.

 _You could say that._ “I don’t know. Possibly.”

“Do you think it’s still out there? On the moor?”

“No,” John says honestly. “I think it probably ran off to die somewhere.”

Henry nods, relaxing fractionally, and John gets the sense of satisfaction he always gets when he’s able to help a patient.

“Henry, can you promise me something?” Henry looks at him questioningly. “Get a bloody lawyer, alright? Don’t be a martyr.”

Henry looks away, mouth twisting unhappily, but he nods. There’s a knock on the door and Louise pops her head in.

“Time’s up,” she says apologetically.

For a moment Henry looks panicked and then resigned. “Thanks for visiting, John. It was good to see you.”

“You, too,” John says, though it’s not entirely true. If anything, he feels worse about the entire situation now. “Stay strong, yeah?” It’s completely inadequate, but he has no idea what else to say.

Henry manages a smile and John grasps his shoulder briefly, trying to send him reassurance through touch instead of words. Henry’s smile wobbles and his eyes glisten, but he nods his thanks. John leaves, guts twisting at the relief he feels to get out of that room.

 

He politely refuses Louise’s offer of a ride back to the inn, preferring to take the ten minute walk. It gives him time to settle his thoughts, but the more he thinks, the more boxed in he feels. He’s never had any talent for keeping secrets, especially from Sherlock. Plus, Mycroft’s threat lingers in the back of his mind, a persistent, destructive weed of a thought.

As he approaches the inn, he sees the rental car parked out front and is suddenly reluctant to go inside, a gaping sense of loss spreading open his chest prematurely. The morally correct path is painfully obvious, yet impossible to comprehend. All at once, his envisioned future is shrouded by black uncertainty. His hopes for a life with Sherlock, filled with adventures and a bed shared more often than not, of subtle affection, overt attraction, and a constant undercurrent of love, are dissipating like so much smoke. He has no idea where he will be in a week.

With the rigid march of a soldier colouring his steps, he forces himself forward, nodding to Garry at the front desk and ascending the stairs, each one a nail in his coffin. He can hear Sherlock pacing in their room before he even opens the door, but the sight of him is still a surprise. Hair a mess from frustrated hands running through it, coat thrown in a corner, and mouth twisted in a scowl, Sherlock is thoroughly agitated.

John feels himself going pale. Did Mycroft speak with Sherlock? No, John still has time, Mycroft wouldn’t have acted on his threat yet, would he? Unless he changed his mind, or didn’t think John would do it.

“Are you coming in or not?” Sherlock snaps.

John steps inside numbly, letting the door fall closed behind him. “What did you find, then?”

“Nothing!” Sherlock exclaims, whirling on him. “They wouldn’t even let me in. The guard recognized me, though I’m certain he’s never seen me before.”

He feels lightheaded with both relief and dread. Mycroft didn’t say anything. John will have to instead.

“This case is senseless. Every lead is either a dead end or raises more questions.”

John’s seen Sherlock frustrated over a case, but never like this. Sherlock’s eyes are wild, the scent of his stress emanating from him, his heart rate elevated. “Maybe you need a break,” John offers carefully. “Take a step back to see the big picture.”

“I don’t need a ‘break’,” Sherlock scoffs, pivoting for another circuit of the small room.

John maneuvers out of his coat. “How about a mental reboot then? Restart the mind palace or something.”

“It doesn’t work that – ” Sherlock stops talking and pacing at the same time.

John looks up in surprise from where he’s hung up his coat. Sherlock is staring at him with an odd intensity, head cocked in a considering and predatory fashion. John feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Sherlock stalks towards him. “You’re right.”

“I am?”

Sherlock comes uncomfortably close, and then closer still, until John’s back is against the door and Sherlock is looming over him. “A mental reboot, as it were. Let’s have sex.”

John gapes, heart rate skyrocketing. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Sherlock says, his voice slipping into the velvety register used to convince reluctant witnesses of his trustworthiness. “You want me, sexually and romantically. I reciprocate those desires.”

It’s suddenly hard to breathe, Sherlock’s scent filling his head. Part of him is undeniably excited by Sherlock’s closeness, his intent, and the hint of something rich and enticing lacing the air between them. The rest of him, however, feels cornered and threatened, both physically and emotionally. Up to this point, Sherlock has been skittish in regards to their relationship. Why the sudden change of heart?

“I don’t want to be a distraction from a case. I want this to mean something.” John regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth, closing his eyes to block out the laser focus of Sherlock’s gaze. He’s meant to break things off with Sherlock, not push for more.

“Why can’t it be both?” Sherlock asks, completely serious.

John’s horribly tempted. This could be his only chance to experience this with Sherlock. If he lets this happen, there’s no going back for him, and Mycroft will tear them apart. He has no doubt that Mycroft would lock John up in a cell for the rest of his life if it meant keeping his little brother safe. The angry, snarling thing in the back of his head, urging him to shove Sherlock away and snap at his throat, makes him unsure if Mycroft would be wrong in doing so.

Eyes still closed, John shakes his head. “I can’t.”

Sherlock takes a step back and John can breathe easier. “Why not?”

It’s on the tip of his tongue. _I’ve changed my mind. I don’t want you anymore. You were right, it was a date. It’s not me, it’s you._ The words tremble in his throat, get trapped in his mouth. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth in self-defence. It would be emotional suicide. Sherlock puts on a haughty front, but he’s the most sensitive person John knows. John’s rejection in this moment of vulnerability will cause Sherlock to close off completely. He’ll go blank as a corpse, his eyes will freeze and shatter, and his lips will turn to stone. John has to do it.

He can’t. It’s not in his blood to simply give in.

“I’m dangerous,” he whispers and opens his eyes.

His response is unexpected, thawing the encroaching ice in Sherlock’s eyes with confusion. “How so?”

“I’m…changing,” John hedges, searching desperately for the correct words.

Sherlock just watches him expectantly, waiting for an explanation. John straightens his shoulders. _Fuck Mycroft_ , he thinks, Sherlock deserves the truth. And John deserves the right to tell it. Whatever is happening to him, they can figure it out together.

“It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try.”

John scowls at him. “I am. Try to keep an open mind here, alright?”

Sherlock jerks his head in a nod, indicating he should continue with an impatient wave of the hand.

John takes a breath. “When I was bitten, I was infected by a virus.”

The irritated twitching of Sherlock’s fingers stops, fear blooming in his eyes. John could leave it at that, he realizes. He could say that he has a contagious condition that inhibits any kind of sexual relations, that he’ll need to visit a clinic monthly for treatments. He could keep his distance and still have Sherlock in his life. He dismisses the idea immediately. He could never maintain such a ruse, nor can he justify causing Sherlock concern for his health.

“The truth is, Frankland had a condition, which he passed to me when he bit me.”

Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “You’re confused. It was the hound that bit you.”

“Frankland was the hound, Sherlock,” John says, trying to convey earnestness. “Why didn’t we see the hound’s footprints entering or leaving the hollow? Because Frankland became the hound, and then transformed back when Henry shot and killed him.”

Sherlock shakes his head, taking a step back. He’s pale.

“Every full moon,” John continues, “Bob Frankland transformed into that grey hound we saw. He was a werewolf. That’s what Henry’s father discovered all those years ago, that’s why Frankland killed him. And now I’m becoming one as well.”

The temperature in the room has plunged into the sub-zero range. The ice has returned to Sherlock’s eyes and John’s chest tightens, restricting his breath.

“You’re mocking me,” Sherlock says, voice flat.

“No. No, Sherlock, I swear I’m not.”

“Don’t lie!” he snaps. “If you’ve changed your mind about me, about us, then all you had to do was say so.”

John reaches out to him, but Sherlock jerks back, slipping around him to grab his coat. “I haven’t – ”

“Shut up,” Sherlock hisses, with such venom that John feels his mouth snap shut automatically. “I don’t want to hear it.” He’s a whirlwind moving around the room, John frozen to the spot. “I knew this was a bad idea.”

John watches in horror as Sherlock shoves his things in his suitcase, forgoing his habitual meticulous packing in favour of speed. He can’t think of what to say without making it worse. “Sherlock –”

“No. I’m done.” Sherlock crashes into the loo, slamming the door behind him.

The irony of the situation makes John want to scream. Of course, by doing the exact opposite of what Mycroft said, the outcome Mycroft sought has been realized. The only way Sherlock will accept John’s words is if he thinks through it himself. No amount of John explaining will help.

Taking his chance, John lunges for his coat, retrieving Frankland’s journal. Heart pounding, he slips the journal into the front pocket of Sherlock’s suitcase, praying that Sherlock won’t notice it until later, after he’s had time to cool off. He sits on his bed, scrubbing his face with his hands, just as Sherlock emerges with his toiletries. John watches silently as these are thrown carelessly into the suitcase, which is then shut and zipped closed with uncharacteristic violence.

“It’s the only explanation that fits all the facts,” John says, without hope.

Sherlock says nothing, doesn’t even look at him. Coat on, suitcase in hand, face a carving, Sherlock sweeps out of the room, leaving John behind in the wreckage.


	11. Chapter 11

_Greg’s hands shake as he takes aim through the poisonous fog, his chest clenching with each missed shot at the snarling hound. Only once John has killed the beast with two steady gunshots does Greg lower his arm. Keeping his torch aimed at the dead dog, his shoulders slump in relief._

_Lying on the dirt where Henry tackled him, Frankland is silent as Sherlock gushes out his explanations, Greg and John each keeping a hand on an agitated Henry._

_“My dad was_ right _,” Henry chokes, his voice bleeding like a cracked scab on a still-healing wound. “That’s why you’d killed him – because he was right, and he’d found you right in the middle of an experiment.”_

_Still hunched on the ground, Frankland twitches and groans. “No.”_

_Taking a step closer, Sherlock snaps an incredulous, “No?”_

_With the habit of his profession, Greg moves forward to restrain the criminal, but hesitates when Frankland thrashes violently. “Why couldn’t you just leave it be, Henry?” Frankland gasps, head bowed and fingers clenching in the soggy leaves._

_“You killed my dad!”_

_“No!” Frankland shouts, causing them all to startle. Greg moves to stay between Henry and Frankland, while John steps subtly in front of Sherlock. “I didn’t kill him!”_

_“It’s the only possible explanation,” Sherlock insists._

_“He found your experiments!” Henry cries, pushing against Greg’s restraining arm._

_Frankland coughs a laugh. He looks up at them just as the moon breaks through the clouds, and his eyes have been consumed by black, a demonic red light burning in the pits. “No,” he insists, jaw working around unnaturally sharp teeth. “He found something much worse.”_

_There is a loud crack, like a thick tree branch snapping in half, and Frankland convulses with an agonized scream. Greg shoves Henry back and draws his firearm, aiming at the man writhing on the ground as if possessed._

_“Is this the fog?” Greg demands, not taking his eyes away from Frankland. “Sherlock, is this the fog?”_

_There’s a moment of hesitation, filled by Frankland’s cries as his back arches and appears to change shape, then Sherlock admits, “I don’t know.”_

_“It’s got to be,” John insists, his innate practicality pushing him to step up to Greg’s side but keep Henry’s gun lowered. “Frankland, are you alright?”_

_With a deep, inhuman snarl, Frankland hunches, his skin seeming to ripple, his limbs lengthening and his face morphing into something horrific. Seams creak and material tears as Frankland’s clothing is stretched._

_“Christ,” Greg gasps, jerking back a step and bumping into Sherlock._

_John lifts the gun. “Sherlock, get back,” he orders, voice hard as steel, and Greg nearly stumbles back as well, without conscious thought._

_The creature continues to groan and snarl as it changes form, looking less like a man and more like an immense, humanoid wolf, larger even than the hound John shot._

_“John,” Sherlock says, with the slightest waver._

_John shakes his head as Henry whimpers from somewhere behind them. “We’re hallucinating.”_

_When the transformation is complete, the creature lies panting on its side on the ground, thick grey fur shivering in the breeze, coiled muscles twitching under the moonlight. For a moment, the humans hold their breath, waiting, as the creature rumbles quietly._

_Voice high and tight, Henry whispers, “Oh, my God.”_

_A snarl rips through the air, as sudden and violent as a lightning strike. With a movement nearly too quick to see, the creature lunges and Greg is knocked to the side, his instinctive shot going wide. Breath knocked out of him, Greg scrambles onto his back at the sound of a shout, turning to see the creature pinning John to the ground with clawed hands the size of dinner plates. John’s lost Henry’s gun somewhere, needing both hands to keep the creature’s glistening teeth away from his throat._

_Greg’s gun is ripped from his hand, his vision momentarily obscured by Sherlock’s coat as the detective whirls and shoots in the same motion. He shoots again and again, and Greg pushes himself to his feet to watch in disbelief as each bullet strikes the creature’s thick hide and falls harmlessly to the ground._

_John’s legs kick uselessly as his arms buckle and the creature’s teeth sink into his shoulder. The sound he makes is something Greg never wants to hear again._

_Sherlock shoots until the gun clicks with an empty chamber. “John!” he bellows, face bleached bone-pale._

_Unable to bear John’s screams any longer, Greg seizes Sherlock’s shoulder and pulls him back. “Sherlock, there’s nothing –” he begins, but is interrupted by Sherlock’s roar as the man hurls the useless firearm at the creature’s head._

_Enraged, the creature jerks back from John to face them, teeth dripping with blood and saliva, eyes burning fire. It manages a single step towards them, abandoning John’s sprawled form on the ground, before a series of shots ring out. Greg’s hands cover his ears automatically against the unnatural howl that pierces the air, an instinctive, prey-like dread tightening his chest. The creature jerks and collapses heavily in the mud, revealing a shaking Henry Knight with his gun in both hands as he fires the last of his bullets._

_Stunned, Henry crumples to the ground as the monster lies whining quietly. Sherlock jerks out of Greg’s hold to stumble towards John, and Greg follows more slowly, mentally preparing himself._

_On his knees at John’s side, Sherlock’s hands flutter uselessly, his breath rabbit-quick. “Lestrade,” he implores, turning glistening eyes on him._

_Taking a deep breath, Greg orders his thoughts, taking charge of the situation as a copper and not a friend. Tearing off his coat and bundling it into a ball, he presses it to the hemorrhaging mess of John’s shoulder before guiding Sherlock’s hands to replace his own._

_“Strong pressure,” he orders and pulls out his mobile._

_Sherlock presses on John’s shoulder until John groans in protest, Sherlock echoing the noise. When Greg is finished the call to the local authorities, Sherlock croaks, “Use my mobile. Call Mycroft.” His voice breaks twice._

_“Where is it?”_

_“Right pocket.”_

_Not questioning him, Greg retrieves the mobile and dials the second number listed under M. It’s answered on the second ring._

_“Sherlock?” Mycroft’s voice is tense. “What’s happened?”_

_“John’s been attacked,” Greg bites out. “We’re in –”_

_“I know where you are,” Mycroft interrupts. “I’m sending a helicopter. Do not leave Sherlock’s side,” he orders and hangs up._

_Greg nearly growls in frustration; of course he won’t leave. He slips the phone back into Sherlock’s pocket and feels for John’s pulse at his neck. It’s unsteady and quick, but there. Tapping his cheek a couple times, Greg asks, “John? John, can you hear me, mate?” There’s no response._

_When the tears begin leaking reluctantly down Sherlock’s cheeks and his shoulders begin to shake, Greg takes over for him, pressing his now-soggy coat against John’s wound. Before he can ask, Sherlock removes his own coat and blankets as much of John’s shivering body as he can, before seating himself by John’s head and gently cradling his skull in his bloody hands. Hunching, he presses his forehead to John’s and whispers broken words that Greg tries not to hear._

_A few metres away, Henry sits with his arms around his legs, rocking gently and silently. The monster’s whimpering has stopped at some point and Frankland’s nude corpse lies in its place, body riddled with bullets._

_Mind blank with confusion and horror, Greg tries to keep his bleeding friend alive while Sherlock weeps beside him._


	12. Chapter 12

John spends the next several hours in a state of shock and numbness. While he was aware of the possibility of losing him, his hope to keep Sherlock with the truth makes the sudden departure so much worse. It hurts, how easily Sherlock believed that John had changed his mind about his feelings. He understands now the depth of Sherlock’s insecurity and uncertainty in John’s motives. While John thought he was transparent regarding his intentions, the smallest rejection and doubt has ruined all progress between them.

Once night has fallen, he receives a text.

_Sherlock en route to London. Wise choice, John. MH_

He turns off his mobile and carefully places it on the bedside table. He gets up, walks four steps, and slams his left fist into the nearest wall. The pain of it nearly drops him to his knees. He’s cracked at least one knuckle and his vision wavers with each throb of his jarred shoulder. There’s a dent in the wall.

He lies on his bed and pretends to sleep like a normal person. He can’t afford to replace the furniture if he trashes the room.

 

He spends the next two days slowly going insane. When he goes out for breakfast the next morning, absolutely ravenous but unwilling to face Bill’s and Garry’s questions, he develops a headache halfway through his meal. He’s battered by smells and sounds and his eyes keep catching on details he’s never noticed before. The lack of sleep and his pounding head force him to take a nap once he gets back, which he’s woken from three hours later by a knock on the door.

He’s off the bed in an instant, heart in his throat as he throws open the door, only to sag in disappointment at the sight of his visitor.

“Hi, John,” says Mina, holding out a plastic bag. “Care for some lunch?”

The scent of soup and sandwiches wafts into the room, making his stomach grumble in sharp hunger. He steps aside silently and lets her in, noticing her especially mild scent. It’s a relief after the chemical-tinged stench of perfumes and body products that morning. Her use of unscented products must be for his benefit and he’s grudgingly grateful.

“Your body is preparing for the first change,” she says as she unpacks the food onto the small table in the room. “You’ll notice an increase in appetite the next few days.”

John’s not in an especially conversational mood, simply muttering a thanks as they sit and dig in.

Mina isn’t deterred, munching on her sandwich and looking around the room. Her eyebrows lift at the fist-sized dent in the wall, eyes flicking to him and then down to his swollen hand holding his spoon. She wisely doesn’t comment.

“I used to be a werewolf hunter,” she says casually and Johns freezes mid-chew. “Until Mycroft hired me.”

John swallows and stares at her.

“Werewolves are mindlessly violent, incredibly powerful and nearly uncontrollable. Henry’s father was murdered by his friend for discovering the truth about Frankland. Granted, he should have just shot the werewolf instead of trying to reason with him, but I suppose their friendship made him soft.”

John sits back in his chair. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because you need to understand that pushing Sherlock away is the right thing to do. For his safety.”

“I’m _nothing_ like Bob Frankland.”

Mina smiles sadly. “Not yet. But every werewolf behaves the same during the full moon.”

“If I’m so dangerous, why don’t you just kill me?”

“Five years ago, I would have,” Mina admits matter-of-factly. “But Mycroft thinks that’s a waste of potential. He has the resources to contain and help people like you.”

John snorts and grabs his sandwich. “In return for?”

She shrugs. “I don’t know the details of his projects. But I know he offers protection to all his employees.”

“Somehow ‘employee’ doesn’t sound like the right word. And I’ve really no interest in being part of any of Mycroft’s ‘projects’.”

She smiles serenely around her last bite of sandwich. “You might change your mind after your first change.”

“You know, I liked you better before I knew you worked for Mycroft.”

She laughs. “I’m used to that.”

Once they’ve finished eating and she’s preparing to leave, she turns to him. “Ice that hand, won’t you? And try not to bite anyone’s head off when they piss you off.”

He grinds his teeth but manages not to do just that as she shuts the door behind her.

He checks his mobile out of boredom and finds an email from an unfamiliar address. He nearly deletes it before realizing it’s Mrs. Hudson using the neighbour’s laptop, just to send him a long message rebuking him for ‘whatever happened between you and Sherlock’. With a sigh, he sends a text to Sherlock.

_Glad you got home safe. Stop scaring Mrs. H._

He watches telly until he becomes restless. He goes for walks but his sharpening senses are distracting and disorienting, causing him to twitch and jerk his head around like a neurotic squirrel. His skin feels like it’s crawling constantly and everything annoys him, from his too-hot tea to a lady’s high-pitched voice as she gossips to a friend. He’s as hungry as he was as a teenager and only able to sleep for a few hours at a time.

Mina visits him again the following day for lunch. He’s under no impression that it’s for any reason other than to give Mycroft updates on his condition, but he’s bored so he lets her in anyway. They eat sandwiches and play cards for forty-five minutes. John’s not up to talking about past cases and he’s not interested in hearing of her werewolf hunting days, so they don’t talk much.

Sherlock doesn’t text.

The next day John wakes with muscle aches that a hot shower does little to soothe. When he attempts to go out for breakfast, he realizes he can’t stand the thought of leaving the room unprotected. It’s his space now, filled with his things and his scent. It’s a territorial urge he’s never felt before, too strong to resist, so he calls down to the front desk to have some food sent up to his room. When there’s a knock on the door twenty minutes later, he asks for the food to be left on the floor outside. The thought of letting in a stranger is repellant.

When Mina knocks at noon, he stands facing her, the closed door between them. “I can’t let you in,” he says, but it sounds like a question.

She’s silent for a moment. “That’s alright. I’ll just leave the food outside, shall I?”

John swallows, embarrassed and confused by his reaction. “Alright.”

“You’ll have to come out of there tomorrow though.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” she says and leaves.

When John can no longer hear her footsteps, he inches the door open wide enough to snatch the plastic bag. She’s left her own portion for him, too, and he scarfs down everything. The restlessness compels him to stalk the room obsessively, little spikes of irritation jabbing him every time he picks up Sherlock’s scent on the other bed. After the tenth circuit, he can’t stand it any longer and, feeling like a crazy person, lies on Sherlock’s bed, smothering the fading other scent with his own. It calms him considerably.

Sherlock still doesn’t text. Surely he’s found Frankland’s journal by now.

That night his restless sleep is consumed by nightmares of blood, sharp teeth, and midnight black shadows that stalk him like prey.

 

The next morning, two sets of footsteps stop outside his door. John stands on the other side, his packed suitcase in hand. Having his belongings all together puts him at ease, but the thought of leaving his territory is nearly intolerable.

“Good morning, John,” says Mycroft through the door. “Would you care to join us?”

“Not particularly,” John replies, hand on the doorknob.

“Excuse me, my phrasing was inaccurate,” Mycroft says drily. “You will come with us now.”

“This isn’t your home, John,” Mina says. “You can’t stay there forever.”

John bares his teeth to no one. “I know. Just give me a second.” He takes a deep breath, pushing back that dark thing in the back of his head, the shadow that’s been snapping and snarling for days. He opens the door and quickly steps out, shutting the door behind him. Leaving the room is one thing, letting anyone in is another matter entirely.

Mycroft’s eyes flick over him. “You’re doing well, all things considered.” He turns and leads the way down the stairs. Mina smiles and waves him forward, following behind.

“In case you haven’t figured it out, I don’t particularly like you right now,” John mutters, body stiff with resistance and sore muscles.

“I had figured it out,” Mycroft agrees.

John rolls his eyes. “Oh, good.”

Fortunately, they don’t ask him to put his suitcase in the trunk, as that would be awkward to refuse. He puts it on the back seat beside him, aware he’s being ridiculous and territorial.

Mina’s only been driving for a couple minutes when she glances in the rear-view mirror and says, “Sir.”

“Keep driving,” Mycroft replies calmly.

Turning in his seat, John sees a cab is following them. Mycroft’s mobile vibrates in his pocket, but he doesn’t retrieve it.

The drive to Baskerville seems to take ages, the cab behind them the whole way. The moment they park, a corporal opens the back door for John.

“Please follow me, sir.”

John steps out and looks at the cab stopped at the outside gates. “Is that –”

“Come on, John,” Mina says, tugging on his arm, urging him in the direction of the retreating corporal. Mycroft is striding away towards the gates just as Sherlock emerges from the back of the cab.

“But that’s –”

“Let Mycroft deal with him.”

Sherlock’s eyes land on him and John sees him jerk forward, stopped by the guard’s hand on his chest. Another corporal steps in front of John, blocking his view. His hands are loose at his sides, feet firmly planted. He meets John’s gaze warningly. John goes. They step inside just as Sherlock starts yelling at his brother.

They lead him to a medical wing first, where his blood is drawn, mouth swabbed, urine collected, and reflexes, sight and hearing tested. The doctors are brusque but efficient, and they are finished just as John is losing his patience. He’s then left in a small, sterile room with a camera in each corner, the door locked behind him. There’s a bed, toilet, sink, table, two chairs and a television which he flicks on. His mobile has been taken from him, but they let him keep his suitcase. He feels adrift, the shadow in the back of his mind whining uncertainly in this unfamiliar environment.

Thirty minutes later there’s a knock on the door and the small hatch near the top slides open. “You have a visitor,” Mina announces and Sherlock peers into the room.

John jumps to his feet and approaches the door. “Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes flick over him impassively and for a moment his resemblance to his brother is uncanny.

“What did Mycroft tell you?” John asks.

“I found Frankland’s journal you smuggled into my suitcase,” he says instead of answering. “I’m not sure what you hoped it would communicate to me other than that the man was a lunatic.”

The hope in John’s chest extinguishes. “You still don’t believe me.”

Sherlock’s eyes dart to the side where Mina is no doubt standing watch. “I don’t know what to believe.”

“You said yourself that this case makes no sense. You keep coming up with more questions because all the evidence points towards a truth you refuse to see.”

“Or I haven’t found the right evidence, yet.”

“Do you really believe that?” Sherlock doesn’t respond and John sighs. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out the truth when the full moon rises tonight.”

“Do you realize how mad that sounds?” Sherlock snaps.

“I can’t deny what’s happening to me!” John exclaims. “It’s not normal that I can smell that you had a cigarette yesterday or that you used my mouthwash this morning. It’s not normal that I can hear Mina texting or your stomach grumbling from here because you skipped breakfast. It’s not normal that there’s this dark, angry _thing_ in my head howling to get out.”

“It’s not normal!” Sherlock agrees in exasperation. “But it doesn’t mean you’re going to turn into a man-eating wolf.”

The sound of his grinding teeth is like static in his ears. “Your brother seems to think that’s the case and I wouldn’t bet against him.”

Sherlock slams closed the hatch. John turns and kicks the chair across the room, wood splintering as it hits the corner of the bed. The hatch reopens gently.

“Please stay calm, John, or we’ll have to put you in the padded cell,” Mina says.

“Why did Mycroft even let him in here?” John demands. “I thought the whole point of this was to keep him away from me.”

“The point of this is to keep you away from _everyone_ ,” she corrects. “I don’t pretend to understand the Holmes brother relationship.”

“Bloody Mycroft,” John hisses to the closing hatch.

 

John watches two cooking shows before his lunch arrives, which he eats without tasting. By early afternoon, the body aches have worsened and he’s running a fever. He’d suspect he’s coming down with a sudden bout of the flu, except that he feels incredibly energized. Stretching helps with the restlessness and the muscle aches, while in the back of his mind, the shadow begins to materialize and solidify.

Two home reno shows and a talk show pass in a haze before dinner arrives, this time with a side of two white pills.

“Muscle relaxants,” Mina explains. “They’ll help stop you from resisting the change.”

The body aches ease a bit after that, the medication loosening his taut muscles. He sits on the bed, eyes closed, breathing deeply. He’s listening. Not to the outside but to the inside, where a silhouette of a wolf paces in his thoughts. The wolf is impatient, with teeth bared, eyes flashing, and hackles raised. There is a hunger burning red, a mindless desire for violence that is almost calming in its simplicity.

When they come for him, it is John that is in the back of the wolf’s mind. The wolf does not want to be touched. It snarls at reaching hands. The hands, many of them, grab him anyways, drag him from the room. They strip him and shove him into another room, this one grey and hard and cold. John notices his reflection in a long, narrow, one-way viewing window near the ceiling, a drain in the floor and a camera in each corner. The wolf prowls around the room, looking for escape. John knows there is none.

John thinks of Sherlock, bone-white in the Hollow, spitting _I didn’t see anything_. He wonders if Sherlock will deny seeing this, too.

The wolf grows bigger in his mind, until it’s no longer a wolf at all, but some horrible, hulking monster.

John wonders, his thoughts getting smaller, if he is dying. If he will ever see Sherlock again.

The monster is fighting to get out of John’s skin. It hurts. There is a hideous, resounding crack and John falls forward with a scream because his knees have just inverted. He watches as his fingers stretch, his forearms extend, and his fingernails thicken. He screams as tendon and muscle and bone break and lengthen and break and reform. He shudders as his skin itches as if swarmed by a million fire ants, thick fur bursting from his flesh. He goes briefly blind as his jaw and skull shift and reform. He is momentarily paralyzed as his spine snaps and elongates, new vertebrae bulging from his back. He tries to scream but the monster’s roar emerges from his throat instead.

John wonders, fading from existence, if Sherlock will miss him.


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock’s knuckles are white where they grip the metal bar in front of the viewing window. They haven’t unclenched since John, nude and flailing like a man possessed, was thrown into the concrete cell.

Sherlock hasn’t eaten or drunk anything for the last twenty-four hours. He’s been in the presence of his insufferable brother, breathing the same air, for the last six. There is no way any form of drug could have been introduced into his body without him noticing. So, how can he be seeing this?

The destruction of John’s body does not happen all at once. It progresses in bursts interspersed with terrible moment of stillness, where the misshapen body groans and shudders on the ground.

“He’s fighting it,” Mina notes, voice pitying.

“John Watson lives on a battlefield,” Mycroft replies. “He fights everything.”

How dare Mycroft speak of John as if he _knows_ him. “What is wrong with you?” Sherlock snaps. “How are you –” he cuts of with a wince as another scream explodes through the speakers. Below them, the mutated lump of fur and flesh writhes as its spine stretches like taffy, adding feet to John’s height. The transformation seems to fast forward after that, as the creature grows larger and stronger. He can tell the moment John ceases to exist, when the next scream of agony morphs into a reverberating snarl of rage.

The process seems to finish minutes later, when the excruciating creaks and cracks of a body tearing itself apart finally fall silent. With a deep huffing sound, the werewolf heaves itself upright, balancing on thickly muscled hind legs.

Mina lets out an impressed whistle.

“He is rather large, isn’t he,” Mycroft agrees. “It’s always a bit of a surprise how they turn out.”

Sherlock can barely hear him through the buzzing in his ears. The beast is over six feet tall, at least, layered by bulky muscle and a thick coat of tan fur. Its immense shoulders heave with each breath as the beast takes stock of its body, flexing long fingers tipped with lethal claws and twitching sharp canine ears. It weighs more than twice Sherlock’s weight, easily. The beast lifts its head, sniffing the air, then turns to face them, observing itself in the mirror side of the observation window.

Sherlock’s breath hitches and his heart clenches with a primitive, soul-deep fear. The beast’s face is a thing of nightmares – a grotesque combination of humanoid brow and wolf-like snout, the top lip curling back to reveal inch long teeth, but it is the eyes that make Sherlock go cold. They are pits of black emptiness, the pupils replaced by an unearthly red light, flicking side to side as the beast takes in its surroundings.

Those are the same eyes that hovered over John’s bleeding body, that bore into Sherlock through the darkness of the Hollow.

“Is this a trick?” Sherlock whispers, barely able to draw breath.

“No,” Mycroft murmurs, watching him. “Widen your world-view Sherlock, because this is very real. John is far from the first of his kind.”

“That,” Sherlock says, pointing a shaking hand at the beast which has begun stalking the perimeter of the room, swiping at the walls in irritation, “is not John.”

“It is. Just as the hound that Henry Knight shot was Bob Frankland. Every month, during the night of the full moon, this _is_ John.”

With each circle of the room, the werewolf becomes more agitated as it realizes it is trapped. Low, huffing growls slip from between its teeth as it drops to all fours, nosing at the bottom of the door. It slams its shoulder against the door then scratches at it with its claws, jerking back and shaking its head at the resulting screech. Loping on all fours now, the werewolf circles the room again, snarling, throwing its body against the walls. At last when it realizes how thoroughly it is trapped, the werewolf tips its head back and emits a deafening howl.

The speakers spit and crackle under the onslaught, the enraged, booming cry echoing off the walls and amplifying. Sherlock feels his guts tremble, the vibrations of sound shaking him to the core. The howl wobbles, undulates in pitch, filling Sherlock’s head until it smothers him.

He’s out of the observation room and down the stairs in seconds, nearly crashing into the wall as he rushes down the corridor. He is stopped feet from the cell door by a guard. A cacophony of muffled snarls and thuds drifts out into the hall.

“I need to see it,” Sherlock insists, trying to lean around the guard. _Recently engaged, the girlfriend is pregnant. Not important._

“No one is getting near that door until the werewolf has returned to human form.”

“Just let me see it!”

“Stand back, sir.” The guard reaches for the taser at his belt when footsteps approach from behind.

“Just a quick glance won’t hurt, I’m sure,” Mycroft says.

The guard frowns, hesitates, but steps aside. Sherlock brushes past him and stands in front of the thick metal door, which thuds under the weight of the beast it contains.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock nods. With a sigh, Mycroft opens the small, barred hatch and steps aside.

Taking a hesitant step forward, Sherlock peers into the hatch and comes face to face with the beast itself. Saliva drips from its teeth and growling breaths blow hot air in Sherlock’s face. It sniffs at him, red eyes calculating, considering. It is one of the most terrifying sights of Sherlock’s life.

“John?” Sherlock whispers.

There is no warning. The beast throws itself against the door, jaws snapping as it attempts to get at him through the bars. Sherlock stumbles back and a snarl of rage splits the air, grasping claws reaching through the hatch after him. Sherlock turns and flees.

“Second door on the left,” Mycroft calls after him, and Sherlock would throw him the finger if he weren’t so busy trying not to be sick.

He crashes into the loo and falls to his knees in front of the toilet just as the retching begins. He is no stranger to violence, he does not balk at the most gruesome crime scenes, but nothing could have prepared him for this. Back hunched, eyes watering, he gags and spits into the toilet, arms wrapped tight around his clenching belly. There’s not much in his stomach to begin with, so the heaving is mercifully short. By the time Mycroft steps inside, he’s rinsing his mouth out at the sink.

“How can this happen?” he rasps through a burning throat, staring at his brother’s reflection with bleary eyes.

“It’s been happening since the dawn of time,” Mycroft says dismissively. “You’ve simply never been exposed to the phenomenon before. Once you leave here, you never have to be again.”

“What?” Hope blooms in Sherlock’s chest. “Is there a cure?”

“Unfortunately, no,” Mycroft says, looking around the loo in distaste. “But I’ve more or less secured a position for John, so you need not feel guilty about him being –” he flutters his fingers, “– adrift and purposeless in the world without you.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock pushes away from the sink and turns to face his brother. “What are you talking about?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow at him. “Well surely you didn’t think I would leave the man to struggle through his new circumstances alone. Werewolves can be extremely useful if properly trained and employed. What’s a sick day once a month in exchange for abilities such as his, after all?”

The possibilities are suddenly obvious and terrifying. An entire task force of people able to see, smell and hear beyond any human capabilities. Soldiers with super strength and the curse of turning into monstrous beasts every once in a while. Sherlock imagines facing an army of what he just saw locked in that cell would be enough for any enemy to surrender.

“You are _not_ turning John into your plaything,” Sherlock hisses, appalled at the very thought. “He’s perfectly happy at home on Baker Street.”

“You weren’t so certain of that five days ago.”

“A misunderstanding,” Sherlock growls. “Justifiable under the circumstances.”

Mycroft’s mouth tightens the way it does when Sherlock is not behaving as predicted. “You can’t honestly be planning on continuing on as you were. You’d be comfortable living under the same roof as him after witnessing that?”

Sherlock can’t help but stare, realization setting in. “You wanted to scare me off! You thought I’d take one look and run for my life.”

With a deliberate sweep of the eyes to their current location, Mycroft’s ‘didn’t you?’ is obvious.

“His life is ruined!” Sherlock exclaims, gripping the sink behind him. After finding Frankland’s journal in his suitcase, Sherlock had begun his research, disbelieving but loathing to be uninformed. The implications of what he has learned are enough to make him dizzy. “He’ll be carrying the secret for the rest of his life, afraid he’ll hurt someone, afraid to lose control.”

“Good Lord, it’s worse than I thought,” Mycroft breathes, staring at him, evaluating him.

Sherlock looks away, trying to steady his breathing.

“You won’t leave him, will you.” It’s not a question.

“That was never in doubt,” Sherlock says to the floor.

“Your life won’t be the same, Sherlock,” Mycroft warns. “You won’t be able to ignore it, it’s not just an endearing personality quirk. Whether it is convenient or not, John has changed. Every full moon he will become the wolf, even if you are on a case, even if he is sick, even if he is on the other side of the world.”

Mycroft’s voice has taken on a lecturing tone that Sherlock has never appreciated. “I know how it works,” he growls, trying to reign in the automatic petulance. “I can handle this.”

“If he harms you I will have him put down.”

At that, Sherlock’s eyes widen and his head jerks up. “Is that a threat?”

“A warning. Don’t put yourself – or him – in a position where he can harm you.”

“I don’t need your protection.”

“All the same.”

The brothers stare at each other, Mycroft calm, Sherlock battered by too many emotions to properly sort and identify.

A polite knock on the door breaks the tension. Mycroft turns away to open the door. “Yes?”

“Sir,” says Mina. “Permission to tranq’ him?”

Mycroft frowns and Sherlock’s chest squeezes. “The next transformation will only be worse.”

“He’s hurting himself, sir.”

Mycroft exhales heavily and glances at Sherlock. “Let’s give him something to chew on, first.”

Mina grimaces. “If you say so.” The brothers follow her out of the loo and down the hall as she talks into her radio. “Derek. Give him a midnight snack, would you?”

The radio crackles in her hand immediately. “ _Copy that_.”

“Midnight snack?” Sherlock repeats dubiously.

“Something to placate the wolf,” Mina explains.

By the time they reach the observation room, a sheep has been deposited into the cell. It bleats in distress, backed into a corner as the werewolf stalks in front of it, head tilted in curiosity. There is blood smeared on the cell walls, matted in the werewolf’s fur and dripping from its claws from self-inflicted wounds.

The beast drops onto all fours and the sheep cowers.

“Oh, God,” Sherlock mutters.

“Don’t worry,” Mina says. “He won’t remember any of it.”

Mycroft is watching his reflection in the window and Sherlock realizes this is another test of his resolve. Inhaling slowly, Sherlock forcibly calms his mind and attempts to detach himself from the situation. That is not John. Sherlock is an impartial observer.

The attack, when it happens, is sudden but not short. Where a wolf would simply go for the neck, the werewolf seems to enjoy terrorizing the animal, lunging and then pulling away, watching the sheep jerk and press into the wall. When it tires of this game, the beast drags the sheep by its leg into the centre of the cell then lets it go, giving chase as the sheep skitters away. Eventually, exhausted and petrified, the sheep collapses, panting, its legs and hide bloody. The werewolf considers it for a moment then, realizing the game is over, abruptly swipes one giant clawed hand and sends the sheep skidding across the floor to smash into the wall, instantly dead. From this point on, the werewolf enjoys its meal, the crunching of bone and the wet tearing of flesh amplified by the speakers.

The entire scene has left Sherlock nauseated, not due to the gore or the violence, but due to the werewolf’s sadistic display. He hopes fiercely that Mina is right – that John won’t remember any of this.

Once the werewolf has settled and is munching contentedly on sheep bone, Mina and Mycroft depart to catch a few hours of sleep before the werewolf returns to human form. Sherlock decides to stay, sitting and watching the beast as it alternates between eating and pacing the cell, claws clicking on cement. He hopes that with prolonged exposure, the werewolf’s appearance will affect him to a lesser degree, but every time those red eyes flash up at the observation window, Sherlock’s blood goes cold. The immense, hulking creature, with its muzzle and claws dripping blood, provokes an instinctive, all-consuming fear. John’s accusations that Sherlock lacks any sense of self-preservation are being proven spectacularly wrong, as it is a constant struggle for Sherlock to resist leaving the room, the building, and the town altogether. The only thing holding him back is the knowledge that if he flees from this monster, he will never see John again. 

When nothing remains of the sheep except blood stains and a few tufts of wool, the werewolf becomes immediately agitated and bored. Its reserves of energy appear unlimited as it paces, growls and throws its great bulk against the door. With each sonorous howl, the tension in Sherlock’s frame increases until he is sure he will snap. No matter how illogical, he can’t help imagining the werewolf breaking out of the cell and going off on a rampage through Baskerville, tearing apart everything in its path. He imagines himself as the sheep, being batted and chased before the werewolf decides to eat him piece by piece.

The werewolf explodes into song again, its rage tinged by despair, and Sherlock can bear it no longer. He jerks out of his chair and moves towards the microphone, not sure what he intends to do but knowing he must do something, or else his weakening resolve will crumble. He nearly stabs the button on the console and speaks into the microphone, his voice echoing through the cell. 

“For God’s sake, would you shut up?” he croaks, with barely enough breath to force his voice out of his throat.

The howl cuts off abruptly, the werewolf tilting its head as it searches for the source of the sound. Sherlock watches it carefully.

“Can you understand me, John?”

The werewolf looks up at the ceiling, where the speakers are installed.

“Nod if you can understand me,” Sherlock breathes, watching.

Instead of nodding, the werewolf crouches low to the ground, its muscles coiling before springing itself into the air, claws reaching and arms swiping. The beast seems to hover off the ground for ages, so high does it jump, but the ceiling is too high for it to reach. It lands gracefully if not silently.

“They’re just speakers, you idiot,” Sherlock says. “I’m not actually in the ceiling.”

The werewolf gives no indication of understanding Sherlock’s words, but the sound of his voice has caught its attention. When its not actively growling or baring its teeth, the werewolf is slightly less terrifying, and Sherlock is able to appreciate the strength and graceful lines of the creature, unlike any animal he’s ever seen. The only resemblance to John is in the fur, which has the same sandy shades as John’s hair.

“You always manage to surprise me,” Sherlock whispers. He releases the microphone button, trapping his voice behind the observation window. “I’m sorry I doubted you.”

 

The return of Mina and Mycroft nearly five hours later rouses Sherlock from the light doze he’s fallen into, lulled to sleep by the hypnotic clicking of claws on pavement. When he checks the cell, the werewolf is still pacing.

“Can it even sleep?” he asks to the room at large.

“They can,” Mina murmurs, speaking of werewolves in general. “But imagine you were only able to get out of bed once a once – would you waste your time sleeping?”

Sherlock hums. “How long do we have?”

“Twenty-six minutes,” Mycroft says.

“So precise?”

“John will return with the rising of the sun,” Mycroft explains.

Twenty-five minutes later, the werewolf abruptly ceases its pacing. It emits a growl and hunches over, then with a whine it collapses to its knees as shudders wrack its body. The reverse transformation process is just as painful and slow as the first, the beast thrashing and howling as its body loses fur and muscle and claws. Whines and whimpers slip from its throat as bones creak and snap, the wolf form disappearing into John’s skin. The final, despairing howl gradually loses its musicality as human vocal cords form, morphing the sound into an agonized cry. There is still blood on John’s face and hands.

Spurred on by the tightness in his chest, Sherlock reaches for the microphone button again, but Mycroft stops him.

“He’s confused, Sherlock. Your babbling won’t help him.”

Baring his teeth in imitation of the beast that prowled the cell all night, Sherlock growls, “He’ll be much more comforted by my voice than yours.”

While they’re busy glaring at each other, Mina reaches around them. “Hang on tight, John,” she says. “You’ve had a wild night. We’ll have you cleaned up and checked over in no time.”

Pushing himself to stand on shaky legs, John looks around the cell in bewilderment, eyes wide as he takes in the blood stains. He goes pale when he notices the blood on his hands.

Sherlock rushes to reassure him. “Not human blood,” he says into the microphone. “Just –”

Mina releases the button. “Don’t tell him what it is,” she hisses.

“He’s intelligent enough to estimate the size of the animal by the blood stains,” Sherlock argues.

“Just – one thing at a time. People don’t always react the best after their first transformation.”

From below in the cell, John looks up at the observation mirror, his eyes human and ocean blue without a hint of red. He’s panicking but trying not to show it, wiping brusquely at the blood on his face. “Sherlock?” he asks, voice entirely his own through the speakers.

Shouldering Mina aside and ignoring her squawk of irritation, Sherlock takes control of the microphone. “I’m here, John. I was here all night and I definitely believe you now.”

“All night?” he repeats, voice tight. “What happened?” Behind him, the door to the cell opens with a loud clank and two men in military dress enter, one carrying a dressing gown and slippers. Their appearance puts John immediately on the defensive, arms loose at his sides in preparation to defend himself and an inhuman growl slipping from his throat.

“They aren’t here to hurt you,” Sherlock promises, and watches John relax with automatic trust, allowing the men to approach. “I’ll explain everything to you later, but for God’s sake, would you put some clothes on?” It is an enormous effort to lace his voice with exasperation and disgust when all he feels is protectiveness and attraction. Behind him, Mycroft snorts and Mina snickers.

John throws a finger at the observation window, but consents to putting on the dressing gown and slippers and following the men out the door.


	14. Chapter 14

The battery of tests they put him through are identical to the ones he underwent when he first arrived at Baskerville, and he has even less patience for them now than he did then. Growls rumble in his chest and his fingers clench unintentionally with his irritation. The technicians keep a wide berth of him. His reward for not killing anyone is a shower, where he washes the blood from his body while trying to keep his mind blank.

He’s led back to the room he was in yesterday. His clothes have been left folded on his suitcase and the broken chair has been replaced. The table is covered in breakfast foods, the aromas of toast and eggs and sausage saturating the room. He is instantly ravenous and forgets changing into his clothes in favour of digging into the food, feeling as though he hasn’t eaten in a week. His body feels sore, but not in a flu-like way. More like the delicious ache of overused muscles after a brutal workout or really good sex. Stretching out the tightness is both a pain and a pleasure.

When Sherlock comes to see him, the pinched look on his face is immediately explained by the presence of Mycroft following him into the room. John wipes the crumbs from his mouth but doesn’t bother standing. Sherlock claims the only other chair in the room to sit across from John, his eyes glinting with mirth as Mycroft is forced to perch on the edge of the bed with an aggravated sigh.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock demands, staring at him with a familiar intensity. It’s a relief to see him, to be under that scrutinizing gaze again when John thought Sherlock might leave him for good. He looks tired though, and slightly on edge, which puts John on alert automatically.

John shrugs and winces at the sore muscles in his shoulders and neck. The bite wound doesn’t bother him at all. “Alright, considering I don’t remember what happened last night.” He wants to say more, wants to thank Sherlock for coming back, but not where Mycroft can hear him.

“I believe the most expedient explanation would simply be to watch,” Mycroft says, turning on the television in the room. With a few taps on his mobile, a video pops onto the television screen, showing the concrete cell with John, naked, in its centre.

John doesn’t have time to be embarrassed before the transformation starts. He remembers parts of this, flashes of agony and confusion before everything goes black. Watching himself transform is so deeply unsettling he can barely comprehend it. Only his awareness of the recent changes in his body and of Frankland’s journal stop him from insisting this is a trick. It’s still a shock, seeing that monstrous creature replace him.

“It’s real then,” he breathes, looking at the screen with a numb horror. “That’s me.”

“Partially correct,” Mycroft says. “The reason you can’t remember any of the wolf’s thoughts or actions is because it is a separate being, made of the darkest, angriest parts of you. With the introduction of the virus into your system, the wolf invaded your DNA, intertwined with you but other.”

“A parasite?” John asks.

“Only by the loosest definition. You receive benefits from the wolf as well, after all. From now on, you must learn to coexist.”

John looks back at the screen where the beast paces the cell, clawing at the walls like an incensed lion. Even now, in the back of his mind, he can sense that dark shadow growling quietly, eager to be free but lacking the strength.

 _This is my body!_ he wants to scream. _I was here first!_

The shadows snarls at him and he winces.

“John?” Sherlock asks quietly.

He feels suddenly exhausted. All he wants to do is go home. “It’s just a lot to take in.”

“Perhaps we could all use a little time to adjust,” Mycroft agrees, standing. “We will reconvene in London.” From his inner jacket pocket, he retrieves an envelope, which he hands to John.

“He doesn’t need that,” Sherlock snaps. Mycroft raises an eyebrow and Sherlock looks away, teeth grinding.

“What is it?” John asks, flipping the blank envelope around in his hands.

“A job offer.”

“I already have a job.”

Mycroft smiles condescendingly. “In case things don’t work out,” he says vaguely.

“Get out,” Sherlock hisses and Mycroft does so, leaving them in silence.

Rising from his seat, John tucks the envelope into his suitcase. He suspects he has just become exponentially more interesting and useful to the British government and wouldn’t be surprised if Mycroft’s letter is one for recruitment.

“I’ve already served my time,” John says, trying to reassure Sherlock.

“Mycroft can’t have you,” Sherlock replies.

 _But you can?_ John nearly says. Instead, facing away, John strips off the dressing gown and grabs his clothes. He doesn’t realize what he’s done until he hears Sherlock’s breath catch and heartrate increase. John is out of sorts and feels comfortable around Sherlock – he didn’t give a second thought to changing in front of him. Now, the sweet hint of interest in the air between them is a reminder of the other topic they still need to discuss. John dresses quickly but can’t quite meet Sherlock’s eyes when he turns.

“Let’s get out of here.”

 

They arrive home by lunch time, and Mrs. Hudson is so glad to see them she offers to make them tea and sandwiches. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you two,” she chides them as they trudge up the stairs, “but Sherlock was an absolute bear when he got back without you. Thank goodness you two have made up.”

“Sorry, Mrs. Hudson,” John calls automatically, escaping to the sitting room. Their intermingled scents blanket him in the comfort of home.

“Yes, sorry,” Sherlock repeats dutifully, then slams the door behind them.

“Alright, sit down,” John orders, collapsing into his own chair with a groan.

Sherlock perches himself in his chair delicately, ready to spring up again in an instant. “Must we do this?”

“Yes,” John says firmly, “we must. Apparently, Greg is right: we are terrible at communicating and I’m sick of it. I’ll even go first. After turning into a mutated wolf I feel like I don’t have much to lose.”

Sherlock can’t quite meet his eyes, hands clenching on the chair armrests. His pulse is up. John can see it flutter at his long throat and hear it in his chest. Sherlock’s lips are pressed together with nerves and his hair is starting to escape its styling product. This man is a lunatic to come back with John after what happened last night, but John already knew that.

“I love you,” John says simply and watches Sherlock’s lips part in astonishment. It’s always satisfying to surprise the all-knowing detective, but this time it’s tinged with exasperation. How has Sherlock not realized this? “It’s not just about sex for me. If it was I’d go for someone less insane. I’m attracted to you because I’m in love with you. I thought I made it clear before that I was interested in deepening our relationship, but I guess not.”

“You said ‘not yet’,” Sherlock manages, eyes wide.

“You said you found our current relationship ‘satisfactory’!” John throws back. “You called me distracting! I was planning on waiting until after the case to broach the topic again.”

“Oh.” Realization lights in Sherlock’s eyes. He relaxes back into his chair.

“What else could I possibly be waiting for?” Sherlock only shakes his head so John decides to leave that one be for now. “Why did you come back to Baskerville?” he asks instead.

“I wanted a real explanation,” Sherlock admits. “After I read Frankland’s journal, I did my own research, but none of it managed to convince me. I believed there were three possible reasons for your ravings of werewolves.” He sticks out a thumb. “That you were rejecting my advances by mocking me.”

John grimaces. “I’d never –”

Sherlock uncurls his index finger. “That you were mentally unwell and convinced of the delusion.” He uncurls a third finger. “That you were protecting me from something.”

“Or I was telling the truth.”

“I didn’t consider that an option. Regardless, I decided it was cowardly to give in without a fight. The truth is,” he murmurs, looking away, “I wasn’t ready to lose you.”

Hope and affection bloom in John’s chest, filling every broken crevasse of doubt. He wants to reach out and pull Sherlock into his arms, cup his cheeks and kiss his beautiful lips. Only one fault line in his heart remains, one that threatens to break it in two.

“You won’t lose me,” John promises. “Not if you still want me. You’ve seen yourself that I’m dangerous now. I don’t know what I’m capable of. I don’t know if I can control the wolf.” John closes his eyes to block out the fear and doubt growing on Sherlock’s face. “It’s there, in the back of my mind. What if I hurt you?”

There is silence, and then John hears Sherlock rise from his chair. The fault line deepens as John listens for the retreating steps, for the door shutting between them. Instead, the footsteps close the small distance between them and warm hands engulf his where they’re gripping his knees. When John opens his eyes, Sherlock is kneeling in front of him and the sight is enough to take John’s breath away. The subservience of it pleases the dark thing in the back of his mind, but the position is also so trusting that John can’t help but lean towards him.

Eyes dark with emotion, Sherlock tilts his face up and places a hand on John’s jaw to guide them together, their lips meeting with a chaste tenderness. The kiss itself is hardly more than a press of the lips, but the light in John’s chest explodes with near painful intensity, pouring into his extremities and out of his mouth. He chases the light into Sherlock’s mouth, gripping Sherlock’s face to kiss him more fully, the taste and smell of him overwhelming his senses. He has wanted this for so long, his fingertips massaging the roots of Sherlock’s curls, their tongues darting experimentally at lips, Sherlock’s hands pulling him closer. John’s about to join Sherlock on the floor when Mrs. Hudson’s footsteps start to ascend the stairs.

With a groan, John pulls back, turning his head to deflect Sherlock’s searching lips. “Mrs. Hudson is coming,” he gasps. Sherlock’s lips are plump and red, his cheeks flushed and his pupils wide. The sight of him sends a shudder of longing through John.

“She can wait,” Sherlock says, reaching for him again.

John grabs his hands and presses a wet kiss to the knuckles that makes Sherlock’s breath catch. “The door isn’t locked.”

With a groan of annoyance, Sherlock rises to his feet and John slumps back in the chair, trying to slow his breathing. He watches Sherlock throw open the door just as Mrs. Hudson arrives on the landing, then neatly takes the tray of tea and sandwiches out of her hands.

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson,” he says imperiously, blocking her way into the sitting room. “This is very appreciated, you are a wonder, as always. We will enjoy this, I’m sure, but John and I have certain delicate matters to discuss and don’t have time to chat over tea.”

The look of annoyance on her face morphs into amused understanding as she takes in their faces. The woman is perceptive in her own ways and John knows there’s not much they can get past her.

“Very well,” she agrees. “Perhaps I’ll just pop up for a chat over dinner, then.” With that parting warning, she turns back for the stairs and Sherlock closes the door behind her. John stands with a chuckle while Sherlock practically dumps the tray on the kitchen table, nearly upending a teacup.

They meet in the middle of the room before John pushes Sherlock up against the closed door, making Sherlock’s eyes go dark. Their next kiss is deliberate and burning with intent, their legs tangled and chests heaving in moments. John’s starving in more ways than one, but decides the sandwiches can wait until after he’s satisfied his more immediate hunger.

“You’re sure you want this?” he asks when he breaks away from Sherlock’s lips to kiss his jawline instead.

Sherlock pulls him closer by the hips, his interest undeniable. “Isn’t it obvious?” he gasps, tilting his head to give John better access. His moan when John nips his neck is intoxicating.

“Even with the whole werewolf thing?” John manages, hands sliding down Sherlock’s sides.

“Even with the whole werewolf thing,” Sherlock agrees. He grasps John’s shoulders then and pushes him away, looking at him earnestly. “We’ll figure it out together, John.”

To John’s horror, he feels his eyes prick with tears. He’s felt so alone and confused for the last week that Sherlock’s acceptance and support are nearly overwhelming. “I won’t be a distraction from the Work?”

Sherlock smiles sadly. “It’s too late for that. The Work is nothing without you.”

John can’t stand it any longer. Heart near overflowing, he grabs Sherlock’s hand and pulls him towards Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock catches on quickly and practically races John there, kicking the door closed behind them and pushing John onto the bed.

They’re too impatient to do much more than squirm out of their clothes while kissing and touching as much of the other as possible. They’re both breathing heavily, overwhelmed by the novelty and pleasure of each lick and stroke and scratch. The wolf is still there, but it is hesitant, unsure of this new situation, and stays quiet. With unsteady hands, Sherlock pulls down John’s pants while placing kisses to his sternum, John’s heaving ribcage under his lips. John slips his fingers into Sherlock’s hair to pull him back into another kiss, then lets his hands glide down his neck and shoulders, skim down his ribs and sides, and finally settle at his hips, where he tucks his thumbs under the elastic band there. Sherlock pulls away just enough to wriggle out of the pants before pushing John back into the mattress, both of them moaning at the feel of so much naked skin pressed together.

“Oh, God, you feel amazing,” John whimpers, hands sliding and grasping restlessly, lifting his hips to grind their erections together. He groans as Sherlock shudders and presses back, pelvis making subtle thrusting motions that are driving John mad.

“Yes,” Sherlock sighs, head tilted back towards the ceiling as John kisses his trapezius and massages his arse. He moans, sounding almost shocked, and their hips slide more easily as pre-ejaculate eases the way. “ _Yes_ , don’t stop.”

Being covered by Sherlock’s writhing, gorgeous body is a delight, but a sudden possessive urge has John flipping them, pressing Sherlock into the mattress. He can hardly control the desire to take, to own, kissing and nipping Sherlock’s long neck until it’s mottled and red, flicking and teasing his nipples until they’re tender buds, and grinding their hips together until they’re both wild with it, sounds of desperation ripping from Sherlock’s throat. John hasn’t rutted like this in years, but can’t gather the patience to shift into a more dignified position; the thought of separating for even a second is unbearable. By the way his eyes are rolling back in his head, Sherlock doesn’t appear to have any complaints anyway.

“Fuck,” John grinds out, one hand tangled in Sherlock’s hair and the other slipping down to grip Sherlock’s thigh, pulling his knee up to rest on John’s hip and opening him further to John’s thrusts. Their cocks are sliding against each other, pressed between their slick bellies, nothing but heat and lust between them.

Sherlock let’s out a wheezing sound and latches onto John in desperation, one hand on his arse and the other clawing at his back. “Oh, God, John. I’m there, I’m there.”

“God, I love you,” John rasps and kisses him once more.

With a series of shocked exclamations, Sherlock pulls up his other knee to wrap both legs around John’s thrusting, circling, grinding hips. Head whipping back, Sherlock shudders hard as he comes, his cock pulsing and hips twitching beneath John’s weight. The sight is more than John can withstand and, eyes slipping closed against his will, John’s orgasm rushes through him seconds later, the pleasure radiating from his pelvis out to every limb. A rush of burning love and adoration quickly follow, flooding his brain and core with hormones.

“Damn,” he breathes, shocked by the intensity.

Sherlock hums in agreement as they sag together into the mattress, muscles lax with pleasure. After several minutes Sherlock knocks him off, rolling onto his side to he can engulf John in strong arms. He nuzzles at the hair behind John’s ear, presses a kiss to his earlobe, and murmurs into the hollow behind his jaw, “That was incredible.”

John’s stomach takes that moment to make itself known and they both chuckle, Sherlock kissing him once more before grabbing tissues to wipe them mostly clean. With a swat to his bum, Sherlock chases John off the bed and into the kitchen, where they inhale the plate of sandwiches naked.

They go at it again once the plate is empty and the tea is gone. John isn’t sure if it’s the excitement of a new relationship or something to do with the various changes his body has been undergoing, but lust and energy flow through his body and burst from every pore. Sherlock pushes John into his sitting room chair with a cheeky comment about wanting dessert, then proceeds to kiss and nibble his way up each thigh, strong hands holding his knees open. By the time Sherlock’s mouth reaches said ‘dessert’, John’s sweating and gripping the armrests in desperation, unable to keep his hips still. Sherlock makes these tiny choking sounds when he tries to take too much and it’s doing John’s head in. John doesn’t want to say anything, but he could swear he himself looks a bit, well, _bigger_ , since becoming a werewolf.

It doesn’t take long to finish after that, the welcoming, slick heat of Sherlock’s mouth an ecstasy that makes John doubt the existence of heaven; how could anything feel more blissful than this? It’s such a trite, romantic thought that as soon as John’s caught his breath he utters it just to make Sherlock laugh.

He returns the favour with Sherlock in his own chair, but gives him one better in the form of a slick finger grazing Sherlock’s prostate. He has Sherlock near sobbing in under ten minutes, one hand gripping his own hair and the other combing restlessly through John’s, his toes curling and hips twitching with need. John alternates between gentle, barely-there touches and insistent, scorching suction that has Sherlock’s back arching. The third time he decreases the intensity Sherlock curses aloud, voice shredded.

“John,” he begs, hips nudging, legs spread, erection leaking.

Massaging his balls, drawn-up and ready to burst, John looks up innocently at Sherlock’s flushed face. Biting his lip, Sherlock closes his eyes as his cock twitches in John’s mouth, and John decides to take pity on him. Head bobbing and finger pumping, John has Sherlock’s hips lifting off the seat in moments.

“Oh, fuck, oh, God, yes,” Sherlock rasps as he comes, hand falling away from John’s head to grip the chair instead. His eyelids slip closed and his lips part, brow furrowed in what could be mistaken for agony. He lets out a sound that is undeniably a whimper as John continues just past the comfort zone, giving him a little thrill of overstimulation before pulling off with an obnoxious slurp. Sherlock wrinkles his nose, but can’t do more than try to catch his breath, lying boneless and spread-eagle in the chair. “That was not your first time doing that,” he accuses.

Knees aching from kneeling on the floor, John twists and slumps to sit on the carpet with his back against the chair by Sherlock’s leg, his head lolling back to press companionably against Sherlock’s knee. “I had my experimental period,” he agrees, hazily remembering a few select men from the army.

“There’s always something,” Sherlock sighs, breathing mostly recovered. He settles a hand in John’s hair, combing through it idly.

Feeling a bit like a cat getting a petting, John hums. “Was always more into women, but then you came along…”

The stroking pauses. “Are you saying I turned you gay?”

With an amused snort, John twists so he can glare at him. “No, that’s not what I’m saying.” He points a stern finger at Sherlock’s face. “Don’t get cocky.”

A smile plays around the edges of Sherlock’s lips. They’re both sprawled there, nude in the sitting room, at three o’clock in the afternoon. They both still have the taste of the other in their mouths and Sherlock’s fingers are playing with the hair at the nape of John’s neck.

“More cocky,” John corrects and Sherlock laughs, one of his deep, full-bellied laughs he makes when he’s truly happy. John surges up on his knees again and Sherlock leans down, their lips meeting in the middle for a pleased, languid kiss. John briefly entertains the thought of scrambling up to straddle Sherlock in the chair, but he’s much too old for that and not entirely confident of the chair’s structural integrity. With a content sigh, he settles back on the carpet. Sherlock’s hand immediately finds his hair again. “I can’t believe I turned into a werewolf and got a new boyfriend all in the span of twenty-four hours.”

There’s a displeased tug on his hair. “Boyfriend?”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” John smirks. He trails his fingers through the sparse hairs on the top of Sherlock’s left foot. “Lover?”

Another tug. “Try again.”

John tilts his head back, though all he can see is the ceiling. “Sweetheart? Love muffin? Shnookums?”

With a growl, Sherlock nudges him with his knee so John falls to the side on his hip, then lowers himself to the carpet to loom over him on hands and knees. “I think ‘partner’ will suffice.”

Laughing up at him, John lies back with his hands behind his head, the epitome of relaxation. “Whatever you say, honey-bun.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes but leans closer. John tilts his head up expectantly, but then Sherlock pauses, uncertainty flashing across his face. “Are you sure this isn’t…too much? What with everything that has happened?”

Sherlock settles beck with his bum on his heels and John pushes himself up so he can look at Sherlock head-on. “This,” he says, clasping Sherlock’s hands in his, “was a long time coming – for me anyway. I’m ecstatic that you’ve come around to my view of things.”

Sherlock snorts, but doesn’t pull away.

“As for…last night. I suppose I’ve had longer to come to terms with what is happening to me than you have, but it still feels a bit like a bad dream,” he admits. “It’s also hard for me to talk about this seriously when we’re both still naked.”

At this Sherlock laughs and stands, pulling John up with him. “Ah, the simplicity of the male brain – easily distracted and sex-obsessed.”

“Do you include yourself in that shining description?” John asks, heading for his suitcase, which sits abandoned by the front door.

“Of course not,” Sherlock replies, playing up the posh arrogance. “I do not fit in the same category as the average male.”

Unzipping the suitcase just enough to shove a hand inside, John retrieves his toiletry bag, aware that is bare arse is on glorious display. He’d feel silly except that, with Sherlock, he has barely any shame to speak of. “Is that so? In that case, it wouldn’t be distracting to you if I were to forgo clothes around the flat? I think this whole werewolf thing has increased my metabolism or something. Is it just me, or is it hot in here?”

Sherlock is doing an admirable job of keeping his eyes above John’s shoulders, but the flush on his chest doesn’t lie. “My only complaint would be for the questionable sanitation of flouncing around the flat in the nude.”

With a smirk, John glances deliberately at Sherlock’s armchair then heads for the shower. “Yeah, you’re gonna have to come up with a better excuse than that.”


	15. Chapter 15

Mrs. Hudson makes good on her threat from earlier and does indeed enter their flat around six. She’s rightly guessed that they have next to nothing edible in the kitchen at the moment, and brings up a pot of beef and vegetable stew. The smell is heavenly and even Sherlock is grateful, filling his bowl to the brim.

“Don’t think this food is just from the goodness of my heart,” Mrs. Hudson warns, settling with her own bowl at the kitchen table. For once, there’s a bit of space to spare, with just the usual chemistry equipment at the table’s centre. “I think I deserve some explanation for all the odd goings on lately.”

For once, John has no idea how to placate her or what he is even allowed to say, and he takes a large mouthful of beef and carrot to stall.

“John’s been having some health problems,” Sherlock says, face molding into a perfectly crafted expression of concern.

“Oh, still?” Mrs. Hudson frets, her concern authentic. “I thought you were getting better, John.”

“I am –”

“He is, mostly,” Sherlock cuts him off. “There have just been a few little hiccups and John will be having check-ups regularly.”

“Oh, my.” Mrs. Hudson presses a hand to her throat, eyes wide. “It isn’t cancer, is it?”

“No, no,” John rushes to reassure her, though he has no idea what imaginary affliction Sherlock has in mind. “Just…”

He glances at Sherlock but only gets an amused smirk. _Your turn,_ his eyes seem to say. _You’re the doctor._

“Just some…” he tries to think of something suitably serious but not too embarrassing. “heart problems, we think.”

Under the table, Sherlock presses his knee against John’s. “Nothing we can’t handle,” he says.

Her eyes glisten and she reaches across the table to pat both their hands. “Oh, my boys.”

They finish dinner and clean up with Mrs. Hudson promising to make more healthy meals ‘for John’s heart’. She then refuses John’s help carrying the pot back downstairs ‘because of your heart, dear’.

When she’s gone, John sighs in frustration. “Did we really have to make her think I’m sick?”

“That was entirely your doing,” Sherlock chuckles.

“You put me on the spot! Plus, we’re taking advantage of her cooking.”

“Oh,” Sherlock waves a dismissive hand, “she loves it, she just needs an excuse. Besides, how else are we to explain our monthly disappearances?”

“I haven’t really thought that far ahead, yet,” John admits, suppressing a yawn as he leans against the kitchen table. “But only I need to disappear, really.”

With a frown, Sherlock steps closer to loom over him. “If you really think I’m going to let you suffer through that alone again, you are sorely mistaken.”

The implication of weakness makes John bristle. “I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

“I know that,” Sherlock snaps. “You’re more than capable of snapping my neck in your wolf form. But partners support each other and comfort each other. I think it’s time I’ve stepped into that role.”

John smiles up at him but doesn’t go for the instinctive hug, knowing it would just make Sherlock uncomfortable. “I appreciate that, but I also don’t want you to change. I didn’t fall in love with you because you wear your heart on your sleeve. I fell in love with you because your brilliance, your drive and even your occasional insensitivity are all powered by your great, hidden heart.” He places a hand on Sherlock’s hip, a point of connection to emphasize his words. “I know it’s there, but you don’t need to go all soppy on me, alright?”

With eyes slightly glazed over with surprise, Sherlock covers John’s hand with his own. “Would it make you feel better if I was also curious from a scientific standpoint regarding the process of your metamorphosis?”

“That does make me feel better, yes. I’d hate to pull you away from an interesting case just to babysit me all night.”

“There will never be a case more interesting than you,” Sherlock tries, so soppy it makes his teeth hurt, then immediately makes a face.

John bursts out laughing.

“No, you’re right,” Sherlock agrees. “It’s weird.”

 

They sleep in their own beds that night, partially because they both want the comfort of familiarity for some much-needed rest, and partially because John doesn’t want to rush things. They have a bad habit of using an all-or-nothing approach for most situations, whether it be running head-long into danger without backup, diving into interesting cases without hesitation, or sitting around doing nothing at all. It tends to work for them, but John’s not willing to risk it with this.

Mycroft invites them to his club the next morning after breakfast in the form of an idling black car in front of their door. Sherlock is perfectly happy to ignore it, but John convinces him that if they don’t go Mycroft will turn up on their front step instead. With much grumbling, they get in the back seat, Sherlock pressing a hand on John’s knee to stop its jiggling.

When they walk into the meeting room, the sudden absence of sound is heavy on John’s ears. Mycroft takes one look at them and raises an eyebrow. John can’t tell what he sees – he and Sherlock aren’t even touching – but Mycroft only sighs and says, “I suppose it was inevitable.”

“Yes, so sorry your plan to split us apart didn’t work out,” Sherlock says acidly, subtly positioning himself in front of John. It’s an odd reversal of roles – usually John is the one protecting Sherlock.

“I never wanted to split you apart,” Mycroft says calmly, leaning back against the large oak desk behind him. “I only wanted to keep you safe.”

“How much of a risk do you think I present?” John asks honestly.

Mycroft’s eyes flick to his. “If it were up to me, none.”

Sherlock’s hands curl into fists.

“But since you insist on continuing on this way, we will have to set up some other system. Let me be clear, John: if you are left free during a full moon, you will tear apart any living creature you come upon and Sherlock will be no exception. I like you, John, I do, but I do not like that Sherlock is willing to put himself in harm’s way for you.”

Sherlock makes a sound of exasperation, but John cuts him off: “I understand.”

“Good. Let’s get started then.”

They spend the next half hour discussing a safe house to contain John, contingency plans, and various werewolf weaknesses for Sherlock to take advantage of.

“Werewolves have incredible abilities to heal and regenerate,” Mycroft says. He holds out his hand for John’s. “May I?”

Glancing at Sherlock with uncertainty, John nonetheless allows Mycroft to take his hand, palm facing up. With a click, the pen in Mycroft’s other hand converts into a small knife and, without hesitation, he draws the blade shallowly against John’s palm. With a hiss, John pulls away and Sherlock jerks beside him in disbelief, an exclamation of fury on his lips.

“Wait! Look,” Mycroft orders, nodding at the bleeding hand John cradles by his stomach. Sherlock and John watch in disbelief as the cut slowly seals closed before their eyes, leaving nothing but a pink line which gradually vanishes as well. When there is no trace of the wound except smears of blood on his palm, Mycroft passes John a tissue to wipe off the mess. “The only substances able to disrupt this healing process are silver and the Aconitum flower. But you knew that already.”

Sherlock grabs John’s hand and raises it for inspection, turning it this way and that as he searches for the knife wound. “Fascinating,” he breathes, his eyes bright to suit the word.

“What are my limits, exactly?” John demands, thinking of deformed bullets falling harmlessly from Frankland’s hide.

“You can’t actually regenerate a limb, so it is possible for you to bleed to death. In human form, if your heart stops beating, you are effectively dead. As the wolf, only silver to the heart, incineration or decapitation are one-hundred percent effective. As long as the full moon shines, even a stopped heart is recoverable.”

“Right,” John manages, feeling a little light-headed. “And how is the werewolf gene passed on exactly?”

“Through the saliva of the carrier, but only in the wolf form. Human saliva is too diluted. However, not every victim bitten survives, either rejecting the virus or dying during the first Change.”

Sherlock’s hand clenches around John’s as he looks sharply at his brother. “So when you said he was fighting it…”

Mycroft nods his assent. “There was always a chance that John could have died in that cell.”

The colour leeches from Sherlock’s face. John brings his other hand up to hold Sherlock’s, which has suddenly gone cold. “I’m sure they wouldn’t have let me…”

“There is no help for a werewolf whose body cannot complete the first Change. I wanted Sherlock to see what you had become – the risk of him witnessing your death was one I was willing to take.”

The callousness of that statement and the coldness of its delivery have John baring his teeth in anger. “He’s your _brother_.”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, looking at him evenly. “Precisely.”

Pulling away, Sherlock turns and takes several steps, putting distance between them. John watches him, heart aching.

“A package will arrive at your flat later today,” Mycroft continues, bringing John’s attention back on him. “It will contain tools to help deal with your condition. Do not hesitate to use them.”

“What kind of tools?” John bites out, itching to get out of this too-quiet room. He can hear the unevenness of Sherlock’s breathing.

“An inventory will be included in the package,” Mycroft says dismissively. “I will text you both the location of the safehouse and a car will be left for your use on the afternoon of the twelfth – 29 days from now.”

There’s a tone of finality to his voice and Sherlock sweeps out of the room without another word. John follows him in similar fashion. Out on the pavement, Sherlock bypasses the waiting car and stalks down the street, John nearly jogging to keep up.

“He’s just trying to protect you,” John says, noting with alarm the way Sherlock’s nostrils flare.

“He’s a manipulative megalomaniac,” Sherlock spits, not slowing down.

“Oh, he’s a complete prick,” John agrees. “But he has set everything up for us very nicely.”

Throwing out a hand, Sherlock hails a taxi that swerves over to meet them. “He’s showing how much power he has over me. Over us. And don’t doubt for a second that he’ll be getting regular updates on your ‘heart condition’.” Sherlock slides into the taxi, leaving the door open for John to follow. “221 Baker Street.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” John says as the taxi lurches into motion. “But I’m willing to sacrifice a bit of privacy in exchange for your safety.”

“Safety is not the same thing as happiness,” Sherlock mutters, and John falls silent, unsure how to respond.

He’s right, of course, they’re not the same. But John cannot fathom being happy knowing that he’s a danger to Sherlock. It scares him witless to think that, if they’re not careful, John could kill him and not even remember it. He could wake up one morning to find nothing but a blood stain in Sherlock’s place. The thought is nauseating and he swallows hard, looking out his window.

When John’s gets out of the cab at their flat, Sherlock doesn’t follow.

“I need to think,” is all he says, closing the door and leaving John to stare as the cab speeds off.

Trying to stave off feelings of rejection, John trudges into the flat. He’s at a bit of a loss. He doesn’t have to go back to the clinic for another week. He tries typing up a bit of a blog post, but he hasn’t yet decided how to modify the case to make it believable. Nor does it feel right to make a post while Henry is still in jail. As if she’s reading his mind all the way from Devon, he receives an email from Louise with the date of Henry’s court date and receives the official letter of summons from the postman only minutes later. Along with the letter is an unmarked, brown parcel.

He considers waiting for Sherlock, but boredom and curiosity get the better of him. He tears open the packaging with a mixture of anticipation and apprehension, skimming the index letter before pulling out one item at a time. Some things burn to the touch, such as the solid silver knife and silver handcuffs, which he quickly sets aside, shaking his hands to dispel the sting.

The wolf grumbles unhappily.

A box of silver-treated ammunition makes John’s eyebrows rise, designed for his handgun that allegedly no-one but Sherlock knows about. Next John finds several vials of powder – dried wolfsbane, according to the letter. Harmless to humans but deadly as chlorine gas to John. The final item John finds is a capsule, small and rectangular, containing an innocuous white pill. The letter reads: one pill, concentrated wolfsbane and silver nanoparticles.

A suicide pill.

Calmly, John tucks the capsule into his wallet then takes the index letter into the loo. There, he tears it into tiny pieces, which he then drops in the toilet. Once the pieces are thoroughly soaked, he flushes the toilet. He does this three times to avoid plugging the pipes.

Sherlock will know something is missing, but he won’t know what. John plans on keeping it that way.

 

The sun is setting by the time Sherlock returns home, pounding up the stairs two at a time. John did some shopping earlier and is munching on some buttered toast with a book in his lap.

“There’s Chinese for you in the fridge,” John calls as Sherlock bursts into the flat, windblown and smiling. He smells of fresh grass and clean mud. “What are you so pleased about?”

“I bought us a cottage.”

John nearly chokes. “Excuse me?”

“Well, more of a shed, actually, and we’ll need to develop the basement, but it’s completely isolated and completely perfect.” He throws John’s book on the floor and pulls John up from his seat. “Come sleep with me.”

“What, right now?”

“Do you have any objections?”

“None come to mind,” John admits and is charmed by Sherlock’s answering grin. It’s odd to think that they can have this now; this gorgeous man is his.

Sherlock begins tugging him towards his bedroom, but pauses at the sight of the open box on the coffee table, silver knife glinting under the lamplight. “What is that?”

“It’s the package of stuff Mycroft sent you,” he says, words chosen carefully so he won’t have to lie when Sherlock asks:

“This is everything?”

“Yes,” says. The pill isn’t for Sherlock. Quickly, so Sherlock doesn’t have time to catch the lie, he continues, “And I think we should start some combat lessons.”

Indignation flashes across Sherlock’s face. “I know how to defend myself.”

Raising an eyebrow, John rushes him, throwing him off balance with a foot hooked around his ankle and dumping him to the floor, following him down to soften the landing.

“Ow,” Sherlock says anyway as John straddles him on the carpet.

“Your half-arsed martial arts knowledge is not going to cut it, love,” John murmurs and watches Sherlock’s pupils bloom.

Swallowing thickly, Sherlock points out, “Combat lessons won’t save me from a werewolf.”

“I disagree.” John gently tilts Sherlock’s head back with a hand in his hair then presses his lips to the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. He can feel Sherlock’s pulse pounding under his lips. “Your reflexes will improve. You’ll learn how to defend yourself against an opponent that outweighs you. You’ll learn how to use that knife.”

Sherlock’s hands settle on John’s ribs. “You’re talking about teaching me how to kill you. That’s not sexy,” he rasps, his voice begging to differ.

John undoes two buttons of Sherlock’s shirt, pressing his nose into Sherlock’s suprasternal notch and inhaling deeply. Below him, Sherlock shudders. “Being safe is sexy,” John breathes against his skin, knowing full well that Sherlock would laugh at him if he were actually registering John’s words.

Sherlock doesn’t laugh. “Fine,” he gasps. “Just take me to bed.”

With a smile, John springs up, pulling a dazed Sherlock after him. “You don’t have to tell me twice.”

Blinking, Sherlock complains, “I just did.”

“Tell me,” John says, pulling off his jumper as he heads for Sherlock’s room. “Does this shed you bought have a bed?”

“No,” Sherlock admits, close on his heels. “I’ll put it at the top of the to-do list.”

“Fantastic.”

By the way Sherlock pushes him to the bed and covers John’s body with his own, John can tell that Sherlock is feeling protective and John is happy to accommodate him. They take their time with each other, learning the curves and planes of the other’s body. Sherlock finds the spot on John’s thigh that makes his back arch, and then licks and sucks at it mercilessly until John is gripping the sheets. John finds the patch of skin on Sherlock’s neck that makes him moan, high and shocked, then takes every opportunity to press a kiss there, Sherlock’s voice becoming more strained each time.

Sherlock’s hands keep gravitating to John’s arse, his hips thrusting with an unmistakable desire, and the lust that flashes through him when he realizes what Sherlock is too shy to ask for makes him dizzy.

“Please tell me you have lube and condoms,” John gasps, sliding his hands up and down Sherlock’s back.

“Yes to the first,” Sherlock mumbles, kissing his way down John’s sternum.

“I have the second.” John tries to sit up – his condoms are in his room – but Sherlock springs up to cover him like a bony blanket.

“I’m clean.”

John hesitates, nearly asks _Are you sure?_ But this isn’t something Sherlock would lie about. “Me, too.”

“Perfect.” Sherlock reaches over him to grab the lube from his bedside table drawer.

They haven’t discussed being exclusive, but John supposes it’s assumed, considering it’s them. _All or nothing_ , he thinks as Sherlock shoves a pillow under his hips.

It’s not John’s first time, but it’s close to, which Sherlock seems to realize, taking his time to prepare John carefully. John’s not used to being this passive in bed, lying back as Sherlock takes him into his mouth and slowly stretches him with slick, clever fingers. God, John loves his fingers. But every time John tries to reciprocate somehow, with fingers in Sherlock’s hair or hands massaging Sherlock’s shoulders, Sherlock growls at him until he stops, hands planted safely on the mattress. So he leaves Sherlock to it, letting him focus on bringing John to pieces.

It’s better even than John remembers, an unending tide of pleasure, waves crashing over him with increasing intensity. By the time Sherlock deems him ready, three fingers sliding in and out of him easily, John’s biting his fist to muffle himself, desperate for more and yet certain he could come just from this. When Sherlock pulls off, lips swollen and chin damp, his eyes are wild, his cock as hard as John’s.

“Now, I’m ready, God, Sherlock,” John gasps, pulling Sherlock up for a musky kiss. The taste of himself in Sherlock’s mouth is unbelievably arousing, a thrill of possessiveness shooting through him.

“Yes, alright,” Sherlock agrees, hardly aware of what he’s saying as John slicks him up with a deft hand and throws the bottle of lube to the floor.

Knees up with a flexibility John didn’t realize he still had, John forces himself to relax to the intrusion, holding his breath as Sherlock’s cock nudges into him. Sherlock’s been so thorough in preparing him that it takes hardly any effort at all, Sherlock pushing inside him with one smooth thrust that leaves them breathless.

“Oh, fuck,” John manages, nerves singing, every enhanced sense focused on the man surrounding him.

Sherlock is speechless, pressing his lips tenderly to the damaged skin on John’s left shoulder as they adjust. The moment John relaxes, Sherlock moves, giving an experimental thrust.

“Yes, that’s good,” John breathes, his entire being filled to the brim with pleasure.

Another thrust and John bites his lip. Another and John raises his hips to meet Sherlock’s. A fourth, harder thrust and Sherlock moans, eyes squeezed shut.

“More,” John begs and Sherlock complies, leaning on his elbows, arms tucked under John’s so he can grip John by the shoulders, holding him in place as Sherlock snaps his hips with more force. John slips his hands under his own knees to hold himself more open and Sherlock buries his face in the pillow beside John’s head, muffling a loud groan as he fucks John harder, their skin slapping together obscenely. John keeps expecting to reach a plateau of sensation, keeps thinking it can’t get any better, and then it does, his body winding tighter and tighter. He can barely stand it, his prostate pulsing with nearly painful pleasure, forcing cries from his throat with each thrust.

“Oh, God, John,” Sherlock gasps, the first words he’s said since they started, and John can hear that he’s close by the way his voice is reed thin.

“So good, Sherlock.” He releases one knee to bring a hand between them instead, enclosing his cock in his fist. When Sherlock feels John’s knuckles against his abdomen he swears, rhythm stuttering. John lets his eyes roll back, showing Sherlock how amazing it feels. He feels himself clenching around Sherlock’s cock, each successive spasm of muscle getting stronger. “Fuck, I’m coming.”

Sherlock watches him as John’s cock pulses in his fist, streaking both their stomachs in come, the intensity of his gaze making it even better. John cries out, he can’t help it, and Sherlock echoes him, hips stuttering and rough as he comes moments later, face tucked into John’s shoulder again. John wraps his arms around Sherlock’s sweaty back and Sherlock groans in his ear, hips pressing hard into him. Inside him, John can feel Sherlock twitching.

“Fuck, if I could come again I would,” John swears. “That’s the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced.”

Sagging on top of him, Sherlock grunts. “Sleep with me tonight.”

“I thought I just did,” John teases, running a clumsy hand through Sherlock’s damp curls.

“You know what I mean,” Sherlock growls, squeezing him tighter.

They’ve only been together like this for two days, but John feels absolutely no desire to climb up the cold stairs to his room, where only his own scent lingers. _All or nothing._

“Yes, alright,” he agrees. “But let me rinse off and brush my teeth.”

With a displeased sigh, Sherlock rolls lazily to the side, leaving just enough room for John to wriggle off the bed before collapsing face down on the bed. Confused by the physics of how Sherlock lies like that without suffocating, John shakes his head as he trots to the loo. He cleans himself up as efficiently as possible, brushes his teeth, and brings a warm cloth for Sherlock.

“Turn over,” he says, poking Sherlock in the ribs.

“Why are you still awake,” Sherlock complains, but rolls over and allows John to run the cloth over his stomach and groin, wriggling when it tickles. “Enough already. Come here.”

John has just enough time to chuck the damp, soiled cloth into the loo to splat on the floor before Sherlock hooks an arm around his waist and tumbles him, laughing, onto the bed. Sherlock is apparently not as exhausted as he let on, because he has enough energy to kiss the laughter from John’s lungs.

“You still taste like sex,” John informs him as they settle down together, John on his back and Sherlock curled at his side.

“I’m saving it for later,” Sherlock mumbles and John snorts in laughter.

“That’s disgusting.”

“Shut up.”

“Love you.”

Sherlock places a hand over his mouth. “Sleep.”

John does.


	16. Epilogue

They spend the next three weeks settling into their new arrangement. John doesn’t move into Sherlock’s room, but on nights when they have sex and Sherlock deigns to sleep, John stays in Sherlock’s bed. Out of an unspoken agreement, Sherlock does not enter John’s room – it will be the one place where John can escape when the wolf becomes territorial. 

John goes back to work and finds his enhanced sense of smell surprisingly useful in making medical diagnoses. There’s a certain odor that clings to the ill, even those that seem outwardly healthy. When John detects it on a twenty-three-year-old college student that came in for some stitches, he recommends a set of tests that are completely irrelevant to her cut hand. Turns out she has early stage cancer, and thanks to John’s early detection, her prognosis is extremely positive. He is also now more certain than ever that there is absolutely nothing wrong with Mrs. O’Donnell, their regular hypochondriac, but he nonetheless listens to her patiently then prescribes a bottle of vitamin D.

After his first shift discovering this new skill, he goes back to the flat and spends ten minutes talking with Mrs. Hudson, reassuring himself of her comforting, healthy scent. Looking up from an experiment, Sherlock frowns at him when he finally enters their flat.

“What were you doing with Mrs. Hudson?”

“Smelling her,” John says and walks up to Sherlock to do the same to him.

“Pardon?” Bewildered, Sherlock allows John to lift his arm and bury his nose in his armpit.

“Did you know werewolves can smell sick people? I just discovered it.” He inhales deeply. Sherlock smells healthy – more than healthy, he smells vibrant, virile and intoxicating.

“Mrs. Hudson?”

“In perfect health,” John mumbles into Sherlock’s ribs.

“And me?”

“Delicious.”

Sherlock has to restart his experiment after that.

 

They go to Henry’s trial the following week, where they share the most believable versions of their witness statements. Henry has hired a lawyer to represent him and he looks infinitely better than the last time John saw him, when he seemed constantly on the verge of passing out. The facts weigh heavily against him, but it helps that Henry is pleading guilty, is obviously remorseful for the shooting, that his story is so sympathetic, and that he was mentally unwell as a result of Frankland’s H.O.U.N.D. drug. What worries John is the point made by the prosecutor – that Henry had every motive to kill Frankland, the man who murdered his father and drugged him to make him forget.

John seeks out Sherlock to see his reaction, but Sherlock appears calm, which allows John to relax marginally. There are so many people here vouching for Henry’s character that surely the judge will see that Henry simply does not have the will to voluntarily kill someone.

By the end of the emotionally exhausting retelling of that night, Henry’s actions are presented to the court as heroic and Frankland’s death an unfortunate accident.

The final verdict: diminished responsibility and involuntary manslaughter. He is sentenced to rehabilitation in a secure mental health facility.

It’s the best outcome they could have hoped for, and everyone vouching for Henry – John, Sherlock, Greg, Louise – breathe a collective sigh of relief.

 

During their free time, Sherlock and John start renovations on the cottage. It belonged to an eccentric sommelier who built it above an immense underground wine cellar, then gave it to his son upon his passing. Having no interest in wine, the son was more than glad to sell it to Sherlock for cheap, claiming the place to be more trouble than it’s worth, out in the middle of nowhere.

For them, it’s perfect.

It takes several days to tear down the shelves in the cellar. Neither of them are particularly handy, but Sherlock refuses to hire anyone to help them.

“The less people who know about this place the better,” he reasons.

At any rate, with an approaching deadline, they’re too busy to get bored.

Then comes the day that they pick up the new bed. They struggle with the bulky mattress and finicky frame for a good half hour only to realize that neither of them thought of buying sheets.

John flops onto the bare mattress in exhaustion, Sherlock sagging beside him.

“We can never move,” John groans. “This is too much effort.”

Sherlock huffs in agreement. They lie there for a moment, enjoying the quiet, the calm. There are no sounds of traffic or neighbours, just the gentle rustling of wind brushing past trees and a light smattering of rain on the roof.

“I can imagine living in the country,” Sherlock announces to the ceiling.

John turns his head to look at him. “Really? You’d get bored in a second.”

Sherlock shrugs. “I imagine I’ll have to retire someday.”

With a hum, John turns his face back towards the ceiling. It’s hard to imagine Sherlock ever slowing down, but he can see it: the two of them, wrinkled and grey, eating breakfast together, John reading while Sherlock tinkers with his chemistry set. “Maybe then I’ll actually have time to write up our cases properly,” he muses. “I’ll want my own office.” The mattress dips and Sherlock’s face appears above him, his eyes wide and searching. He looks a little surprised and a little elated, and John wonders what he said to garner that reaction.

With a smile, Sherlock ducks and kisses him at an awkward angle. “And a secret dungeon.”

“Ah yes, how could I forget?” John murmurs, accepting another kiss.

In a week, they will both be tested once again under the full moon, but for now they are here, together, breaking in their new mattress with kisses that quickly turn heated. John has never wanted anyone more than he does the man pressed against him, and if his shoulder aches, it is only with the love filling his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm pretty much enamoured with my werewolf John, so don't be surprised if there's more of this someday. As always, I love seeing your kudos and hearing your thoughts.


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